


Prelude to the Kings

by pistolgrip



Series: the polyphony of yearning hearts [1]
Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Idols, Ensemble Cast, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-08-08 14:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 60,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7761169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pistolgrip/pseuds/pistolgrip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>act i: all the stage is your world / <b>act ii: your world, turning endlessly</b></p><p>When the time comes and the curtain draws, his senses fail. There is an assault of noise from the crowd, of the relentless spotlights burning his eyes, until the only thing guiding him forward is the steady thundering of his heart. </p><p>Actions speak louder than words. Fortunately and unfortunately, choreographed performances are both. Taking his place centre stage, he wraps both hands as delicately as he can around the microphone, and he <i>sings</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. [act i] All the Stage is Your World

**Author's Note:**

> A few housekeeping things:  
> 1\. Everyone is their age according to their official listed birthdays and the timeline I’ve provided except Anna. For the sake of not throwing a ten-year old into an idol AU, she’s born in 1996.  
> 2\. The only translations that are mine are those for Fushimi's second character song, Summertime Lovin' (恋して、恋して、夏っちゃった。). I will give credit for the songs I use where it is due, but at a point that won't spoil things.
> 
> Thank you to Nemi (encouragement), Anpan (songs), and Mamkut (support & beta). Thank you also to the saruhiko_sama crew, who has watched me scream about this thing since April.

JANUARY 2013

In a room on the tenth floor of White Rice Entertainment sits a modest square table, low to the ground. The worst possible combination of people has gathered to this table, and they are unfortunately making business plans.

Of course, “worst possible combination” is a subjective idea. But Yata Misaki and Fushimi Saruhiko are on the same page, for the first time in about two years, and they edge closer to the office exit as the four at the table begin sipping their tea.

Suoh Mikoto lounges against the wall, feet barely under the table. The president of HOMRA Ent. (regardless of the fact that he will forever wonder why Totsuka wasn’t the president if _he_ was the one with the _actual_ business degree), he takes the role in stride. All decisions go through him, but he leaves those decisions to be made by those who work closer with the artists; “they’d know better than I would”, he’d say.

The young lady sitting next to him happens to be one of “those that work closer with the artists”, to the point of being an artist herself. Kushina Anna has a sharp sense of business for someone as young as she is, and her schedule is filled with as much appearances as consultations; the term _Vice-President_ is an endearing one, but unofficial. Totsuka is her manager only in paper; much like Suoh, all decisions have to go through him, but everyone at HOMRA Ent. has long since stopped doubting Anna’s abilities.

“Thank you for having us, Yashiro.” Anna is elegant as always, unaware (or uncaring) at the two young men next to her willing the earth to open up and swallow them, _right now._ Munakata hums in agreement.

The President of Scepter 4, Munakata Reisi, is the epitome of cool. (Or so he says so himself.) His demeanor trickles down to the artists on an individual level and out towards the building, windows always reflecting the sky blue. Somewhat unorthodox with his ideas, it’s much to the artists’ chagrin that his concepts—cool, new, and _fresh_ —just _work_.

“No, it’s quite alright, I’m glad you came! Better safe than sorry, right?” Isana is all smiles as he directs his soft gaze to Fushimi and Yata, sealing their chance at escaping. “But our stars seem so reluctant.”

This is the first time both of them are really hearing about this, other than what their respective managers told them. Yata reacts violently anyway: “ _Our_ stars?”

The room falls back into silence as Munakata takes his damn time making a show of drinking the tea, enjoying it, and sighing. His smile is serene, and his gaze slowly, _agonizingly_ turns to the two of them. “I’m sure you can put two and two together.”

Fushimi, unfortunately, can do basic addition. “You and Anna want HOMRA Ent. and Scepter 4 to do a multi-company unit concert.”

Next to him, Yata groans out of frustration. Munakata smiles and returns to his tea.

It’s not completely surprising; considering three of the four people at the table, it was pretty much the only conclusion he could come to. Munakata Reisi, Suoh Mikoto, Isana Yashiro. Three of the four members of _Heavenbound_ , one of which came from each of the largest companies at the time; Munakata from Scepter 4, Suoh from HOMRA Ent., Isana Yashiro from the former Sky High Ent., and Miwa Ichigen, of CoLoURLESS. While collaborations between multiple companies were not unheard of at the time, something of this scale—four different companies, four different representatives—was ambitious.

The first mess of a lawsuit that ended the attempt at a multi-company collaboration was ten years ago; this is now, where three of the four of Heavenbound have control of the companies that brought their unit to destruction. Any attempts at multi-company collaborations are still an open wound, and of _course_ it’s the three of Heavenbound that want to try again.

“Yeah, this’ll go so great,” Yata says after fully absorbing the spoken information and those who got themselves involved. “You should know better than _anyone_ , Mikoto-san! This is gonna go _so_ well because Scepter 4 and HOMRA Ent. get along so well now, right? And of course the main course is me and _Fushimi Saruhiko!”_ He jabs an accusatory finger at Fushimi, who scoffs at him.

“It’ll be a good idea, Misaki. This will also bring attention to our other side units; fans seem to like within-company interactions as it is,” Anna says in her soft voice. She is dangerous as the lovingly nicknamed vice-president—the decisions she makes always seem to be one step ahead of what everyone’s thinking, she’s acquainted with the business, and she’s… Anna. It’s hard to say no to Anna. Even Fushimi had a hard time refusing to humour her.

It’s easy to say no to Munakata, though. “But did we have to do it with _Scepter 4_ , of all companies? We’ve always competed for top spots! And—and _fuck Saruhiko!"_

Fushimi speaks up for the first time since entering the room, tilting his head towards the other. “Very convincing, Misaki, I’m sure they’ll cancel plans now.”

“Don’t be fuckin’ snarky about it!”

Isana’s voice is sweet, easily cutting through Yata’s disbelief. “This is what I mean! You both have very nice energy with each other that wouldn’t be as fun with, say, us and Neko,” he says, referring to WR Ent.’s main soloist. “And it won’t be as fun as whoever’s over at Jungle Ent. these days. And you two are the most popular soloists from the most popular companies, and it’ll be beneficial from a salesview—Anna’s right, some of the other groups can get exposure.” Isana _does_ make a point. Not one that neither of them particularly cares about, but a point nonetheless.

Isana’s humming fills the silent air as he pours more tea into everyone’s cups. Yata feels Fushimi slump slightly in defeat next to him, sighing. “You’ve already made plans, haven’t you, Munakata?”

“Of course. The concert is in thirteen months—aiming for February 2014—and new practice schedules start next week. We’ll be alerting the units involved within the week.”

“…Nothing I can do, then,” Fushimi mumbles as he rests his head on the wall behind him.              

“What the fuck, Saru? Why are you giving up so easily?” He’d thought at least Fushimi would try to resist this with him, and he finds himself angrier than expected.

Fushimi starts with “Look,” and resignation in his voice. (Yata looks. He glares, even.) “If Anna’s decided on this, you’re trapped. And if Munakata’s agreed, then we’re definitely both done for.” He gestures vaguely out the window. “We’re in the office of White Rice Ent., presumably to get information on how Heavenbound went absolutely wrong so we can do better.

“And really,” he sighs out, “the only thing that went wrong with Heavenbound is the companies involved themselves. Unless you wanna say Suoh-san is a heartless bastard—“

“Fine, fine, Jesus.” Yata, for the second time today, is upset that he has to agree with him. After a few seconds of consideration, he kicks off the wall with more force than necessary to sit on the pillow next to Anna.

Isana is quick to grab a cup and pour him some tea. “Fushimi-kun, won’t you sit as well?”

“I won’t.”

Isana smiles, unperturbed, and then he turns to the two company heads with a new seriousness. “Now, are we ready to discuss specifics?”

 

* * *

 

Kusanagi (and Kusanagi alone) greets the two of them when they step outside of the office. He immediately grins: “Surprise! You’ve both got nothing scheduled for the rest of the day.”

Fushimi looks around as if not quite believing his manager would _actually just leave him with Kusanagi._ “Where’s Awashima-san?”

“She has left you in my care, Fushimi-kun. Just like the good old days! Now, let’s have some great bonding times. Catch up with each other! _Talk_!” The emphasis on the last word escapes neither of them; regardless, they protest at the same time.

“Kusanagi-san, absolutely _fucking not_.”

“What made anyone think this was a good idea?”

Both of them crumble under the pain at the same instant—Kusanagi has a death grip on their shoulders and brings them closer together. “You protest as if you have a choice,” Kusanagi _smiles_ , and the two are forced to look up at him. “We have been planning this for almost four months, and we’re past the point of no return.

“I really don’t know why things are _still_ awkward between you two—it’s been two years, really, lighten up. I’m not asking you to suddenly resolve everything within a night. For god’s sake, this’ll be the best thing I’ve ever helped orchestrate, but y’gotta cooperate.” Without letting go of their shoulders, he turns them around and leads them to the elevator, leaving them no choice but to comply.

Fushimi tries to pry Kusanagi’s fingers off his shoulders as Yata makes a ruckus all the way to the elevator.

Truth be told, Yata’s a little nervous. It’s not as if Fushimi’s fallen off the face of his earth; in fact, it’s impossible. Fushimi’s _damn face_ is everywhere, because everyone likes the look of his _damn face_ apparently, and he’s on TV and sometimes they end up within the same stages. Yata feels as though his territory is being encroached on, although it was meant to be _theirs_ in the first place.

 _Saru just doesn’t share_ , Yata trains himself to think. _He didn’t want to share the stage back then, and he doesn’t want to share it now. He always wanted to be alone anyway, right?_

The elevator lets out a cheery _ding_ and Yata walks with a purpose out to Kusanagi’s car. At the first unlock of the door, he jumps into shotgun, leans back, and closes his eyes.

He’s out of the conversation for the day; Fushimi enters the car with a noise of distaste, and Kusanagi only sighs at the atmosphere in his car. “Guess Seri-chan was right about you never turning down a job, huh, Fushimi-kun.”

Yata glares at him in the rearview mirror and Fushimi turns his head away stiffly out the window.

It’s true. He’s never turned down a job, because he’s climbing to the top, up past the shining sun and high among the stars. Fushimi needs to stand his own, because the sun cannot see individual people on the earth, but light from millions of lightyears away will reach, eventually.

In a _completely unrelated thought_ , Fushimi thinks stubbornly, collaboration with Yata is something that hasn’t happened in a bit over a year now, and he wonders if it’ll delay his plans or further them in directions he hasn’t expected. Being on a stage together means that Yata still expects him by his side, unwavering, and it doesn’t cause the tension Fushimi looks for.

Although collabs might have been inevitable in the first place—knowing the history between the company heads—something on this scale this early in their careers was almost unexpected. Fushimi’s leaving is fresh, and he and Yata are still at each other’s throats, and any drastic action Fushimi takes during the entire preparation for and during the tour could have a larger impact than it would, say, five years down the road.

Before he notices, they’re back at HOMRA Ent.

“I’m going to my room first.” Yata slams the van door behind him and the two remaining occupants watch him storm through the front door. Fushimi throws on his hoodie and sunglasses and Kusanagi exhales.

“You’re not as upset by this as Yata-chan is.” Kusanagi states it neutrally, but his opinion is clear.

His former manager has always been annoying in this way. “And you’ve decided this yourself?” Fushimi clicks his tongue and rolls the van door open, grunting when his feet hit the concrete.

Kusanagi comes up right behind him, already lighting up a cigarette. “Just a hunch.”

The halls of HOMRA Ent. look essentially the same from the last time Fushimi’s been there, almost as if time had only resumed when he stepped through the office once again. He’s stuck with a sick sense of nostalgia as Kusanagi spends no time dilly-dallying, walking the two of them straight to the fourth floor.

Fushimi already knows where he’s being taken before they stop in front of the door. “The practice room.”

“ _A_ practice room. We’ve gotta lot around here.”

“ _The_ practice room,” Fushimi repeats. “Kusanagi-san, I don’t have sneakers. I’ll trail snow all over your room.”

“Take off your boots and do it in socks, now stop delaying.”

It looks the same, from what he remembers. Maybe the wood’s worn out a little more, and there are more scuffs along it, and the paint on the wall’s been retouched, but it’s still the same room. Kusanagi slumps in a chair—his old chair along the side of the room, and Fushimi takes slightly left of centre stage in front of the mirror.

Fushimi notes how he’s gotten a bit taller since he last stood here, and he absently rubs his hair between his fingertips.

“Still in the habit of leaving space?” Fushimi is suddenly aware at how Kusanagi’s been staring at him, arms crossed and a smile playing on his face. “I’m calling Yata-chan down to this room right now, so keep that position.”

Clicking his tongue, Fushimi chooses to lie down where he’s standing, folds his arms over his chest, and closes his eyes. For a few moments, there’s nothing but Kusanagi typing softly on his phone and the other HOMRA Ent. group songs faintly down the hallway, and while he wouldn’t use the word _peaceful_ , he’d at least admit it wasn’t as bothersome as he’d expect. He doesn’t react when the door opens, but the voice he hears isn’t the one he expects.

“Ah, Fushimi-kun, you made it!”

Fushimi turns his head to the source of the voice and sits up. “Totsuka-san?”

He’s come in with Yata, who looks confused and offended at the same time. “Why am I here? Why is Saru still here? Don’t you have stuff to with OXIDIZE?” Yata directs the last question at Totsuka, and he shrugs easily.

“Fujishima-kun can handle all of them in the practice rooms for a bit. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Totsuka can change to focus of his attention as quick as he wants, and Fushimi feels himself being put on the spot again.

“Why am I in HOMRA Ent. right now?”

“Isn’t it a bit late to ask that?” Kusanagi stands up and stretches. After a moment, he seems ready. “This was Totsuka’s idea. If y’all ever wanna know how to effectively torture people, Totsuka Tatara is your man.” Kusanagi walks off to the corner where the old stereo is, scrolls idly through his phone, and presses play.

Their old debut song rings throughout the room, followed by sounds of exasperation. Yata currently holds this song as a sidetrack on his album, but the version that’s playing now was before it was modified just for one. Fushimi’s leg twitches at the thought of the old choreography.

“Now, neither of us are letting either of you leave until you do this routine.” Kusanagi’s grin seems to widen at their reaction. “If you forget part of it, get the other to teach you. If both of you forget, make sure your improvisation goes together.”

Yata’s shout rings louder than the instrumental. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Language, Yata-chan, and no, I am not.”

Nervousness is not new to Yata, but it only ever comes around in front of public eyes. He trusts Kusanagi and Totsuka and all the boys in OXIDIZE and so practices never send him on edge, but Fushimi is a factor that throws everything off balance.

Said factor is complaining the entire time as he turns around to face the mirror, but he starts stretching regardless. “Totsuka-san, I really hate this part of you,” he grumbles, as he takes his place stage left once again and looks at him in the mirror.

 “Yeah, yeah, but this idea was pretty genius, right?”

“I really don’t have a choice if you’re involved in decision making.”

Yata, finishing up his stretching, listens to the exchange quietly; while Fushimi is not _friendly_ , he is _casual_ with Totsuka-san, even after over a year or so of no assumed communication. The flow of their conversation is as easy as it can get with someone like Fushimi, and he absently wonders why things still feel so _charged_ between the two of them, but not with Kusanagi and Totsuka. It stirs something nasty in his gut, something that coiled up there two years ago and never quite left.

He takes his place stage right and tries to ignore how much easier it is to be compared against Fushimi when they’re finally right next to each other.

“Take your time, boys, I’ve got all day to judge you!” Totsuka waits until they’ve both taken their places and restarts the track.

Fushimi looks absolutely miserable going through the old motions. Everyone in the room has worked with him before, knows that he’s always been like this, past to present, but the feeling Yata is biting down strikes out of his mouth. “Oi, Saru, this is just as awkward for me as it is for you, but can you at least pretend you actually _like_ working with me?”

For the first time, he makes eye contact with Yata, and he realizes he’s had his eyes on Fushimi the entire time. “The choreography is too awkward,” Fushimi grumbles, but his voice sounds just a bit more energetic from the physical exertion.

When the dance break ends, they’re meant to punch each other in the chest; Fushimi smirks when he nudges Yata in the head instead, who smacks his arm in retaliation. “You’re awkward, Saruhiko, you’re too tall for our matching parts to look any good anymore.”

“You’re just too short.” Fushimi doesn’t realize that his actions are loosening up, that his unwillingness to run through this choreography fading away just a little bit as Yata engages him. “Have you been lying to me about your age? Have you gone through puberty yet?”

“I’m older than you, you piece of shit!”

He doesn’t notice he’s grinning until Totsuka interrupts the conversation. “I thought this song had lyrics, but I rather like your free verse. Your poetry styles have gotten very sophisticated.”

It’s not meant to be condescending, but Yata gets defensive for a reason he can’t quite place. “Saruhiko missed his cue first, so we’ll have to start all the way over from the next round.”

“It’s a waste of time practicing choreography we won’t even be performing,” Fushimi complains, but despite that he takes his place at the beginning again. He remembers the moves but he’s not used to making movements that jerky anymore; Yata, of course, is crisper. It’s modified choreo for him, and while Fushimi is no slacker, the mood he gives off is completely different from Yata’s.

It’s strange, but it’s not entirely unpleasant. The nervousness has an almost excited tinge to it; Yata feels himself starting to grin, as much as he fights it, because there’s still something satisfying about how tightly their choreo winds them around each other. He goes through the old motions and watches the pair of them in the mirror: styles completely different, but somehow still complementary. He glances at Fushimi face every once in a while and he can see his eyes narrowed in concentration, and it gives him a small thrill of satisfaction that Fushimi’s actually _trying_.

The song ends, and there’s a second of silence before it loops again. Both of them take a short break, waiting for the intro to pass, and they start up again just a second before the vocals kick in.

Fushimi’s part is first, as a set up to Yata’s part; even his raps come off more melodious than the past, and it adds an interesting contrast to Yata’s harsh, articulated syllables.

He still falls into the harmony of the chorus perfectly in tune with Yata; they both find that he’s much more polished than he was in the past, can mold his voice better to back up the main melody. When they were practicing together, Fushimi would often be too soft, or Yata a little too ahead of the beat, but now they’re steady and in sync.

Neither of them misses the way Kusanagi’s eyes light up when they hit the chorus again. He’s discussing with Totsuka about something, nodding and smiling and gesturing vaguely at the two of them. It doesn’t deter Fushimi from his performance, but Yata stumbles as he starts getting more self-conscious.

(“It’s funny what time apart did to them, eh, Totsuka?”

He can pick up the comments. Yata curses his good hearing.)

“You’re overdoing it, Misaki,” Fushimi comments, sounding more bored than concerned. Yata only grows more restless as the uncomfortable feeling inside him reacts to the words, and he trips over the next step.

After about the fourth iteration, Yata gets frustrated at how he keeps stumbling and kills the stereo. “I’m done. That’s it. Is that all, Totsuka-san, Kusanagi-san?”

“Oh? I’d think it was Fushimi-kun who’d stop first, but this is alright too.” In the moment between the music ends and Totsuka speaks, Yata resents the Fushimi Saruhiko who never stumbled even once, who never let anything affect him. He is not Yata Misaki, who crumbled under Fushimi and Totsuka and Kusanagi’s judgement.

Kusanagi holds up a plastic bag. “I stopped by the convenience store to grab you guys lunch ‘cause I realize we ain’t eaten since before WR Ent.” Yata notes that the lunch on top has nothing but meat in it, and Kusanagi catches the puzzling look. “Ah, it’s Fushimi-kun’s. Don’t think I’ve forgotten how you’ve eaten!”

Fushimi is quiet as he grabs the lunch. He bows almost imperceptibly to Kusanagi with something that almost sounds like “thank you”. He does the same for Totsuka, stares at Yata for a beat too long, and then puts his jacket back on to make his way back to Scepter 4.

“Wait, Saruhiko—god, what the fuck is up with him?” Yata’s mood sours even more when the door shuts behind him. He rips the plastic container open and starts eating furiously. “He fuckin’ shows up—”

“Yata-kun, don’t talk while eating.”

Yata swallows. “He fuckin’ shows up, acts he owns the place, shows off how much better off he is without me, and just fuckin’ leaves? Y’really want us to work together?!”

The answer from the two of them is a unanimous “yes”.

Yata throws his free hand up in the air and walks out of the practice room with his lunch, still chewing. “Thanks, Kusanagi-san, Totsuka-san. I’m going for a walk.”

 

* * *

 

He sees a poster advertising Fushimi’s new CD. Leaning down to gather snow in his hands, he presses it into a snowball and throws it at his face.

“Saru, you make no fuckin’ sense sometimes.”

 

* * *

 

_JULY 2011_

Misaki is scouted in the August of 2009. He only agrees once they also give Saruhiko a chance at auditioning later that day (because _immediately_ wasn’t a good enough option), because there’s no way he’s doing this shit alone, _right, Saru?_

It’s also because he knows Saruhiko can actually sing. Misaki’s the one that’s always got a tune in his head, but Saruhiko’s the one that can hold it.

So, that August, the two of them make the two newest trainees of HOMRA Entertainment. Misaki fits their history of concepts and Saruhiko _tries_ because, hell, he’s here, he commits to something all the way through, and, well, _Misaki_ tried so hard to get him to come along. It’s the least he could do.

Even if it’s a pain in the ass.

He does everything—really, he does everything better than anyone expects. Misaki can command a stage well with his energy, and between the two of them they seem unstoppable. They’re paired as a balance for each other, cool skills with fire-hot enthusiasm, and before he knows it there are strong hints that they’ll debut as a duet.

In practices, there is no problem. Misaki has a goal of his own, their throwaway moment on that old bridge solidifying into something serious, and Saruhiko supports it as his partner.

Except.

Being on stage next to each other means that Misaki expects him to do the same as he does, to throw everything they’ve got out into the audience, when all Saruhiko wants to do is to receive it all for himself.

They meet Kusanagi for the first time two weeks before Saruhiko resigns. He’s their manager, and Saruhiko hates the way Kusanagi can see right through him and respects the part that doesn’t pry.

He gets antsy in the days before their concept is supposed to be revealed, and while Misaki is practicing alone one day Kusanagi calls him to his office. He steps in the room and presses his back against the door when he closes it behind him.

Kusanagi doesn’t question it. “I shouldn’t be saying this because we’re so competitive, but Fushimi-kun, you kinda look like you’re dreading a debut.”

Saruhiko swallows. His throat is dry. Kusanagi talks too casually to him. It’s making everything worse. “Mm.”

Kusanagi takes a drag of his cigarette and smiles, closing his eyes. “Really, I’m being honest—I’d love for you to stay, but I’ll vouch for you if you leave because you decide, say, your talents might be more useful somewhere else. Or something.”

“…Mm.” In that small noise, Saruhiko lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in. _That was…too easy._ He first frowns in thought, and then says so quietly Kusanagi almost couldn’t hear him: “Thank you, Kusanagi-san.”

Kusanagi doesn’t make a big deal about it, and Fushimi is a grateful for that. “Yeah, yeah, now get out of my office.”

He lets a small smile fall on his face when Fushimi exits. “Sorry, Yata-chan.”

Saruhiko doesn’t know what to do at first with the option opened up to him. He hates this line of work with a passion, even if it’s not impossible for him—crafting a mask to operate under is almost second nature to him, but quitting would place him at the level of the audience. He’ll blend among the masses, and Misaki will not distinguish between fan and old friend from where he shines on under the spotlight. His eyes will pass over Saruhiko and move on, because there are too many people in the stadium to keep to one person for much too long.

Staying in the industry is inevitable if Misaki chooses to stay, which Saruhiko has no doubt he will. Remaining in the same company but going solo isn’t dramatic enough, because he’ll still be in close enough proximity that it loses its effect.

Fushimi doesn’t consider WR Entertainment, because even if it’s been years since the aftermath of the old companies’ concert their reputation remains shaky. Jungle Ent. is too lenient with their trainees, allowing them nearly free reign with their concepts and leaving them very hit or miss.

Arm twisted behind his back, he reluctantly goes with Scepter 4.

No one is really surprised when he leaves HOMRA Ent. after two years with a curt bow and a resignation letter on Kusanagi’s desk. Some of the other trainees wish him well (because Fushimi has talent, just not _their_ talent) and he looks away every time, at a loss.

Saruhiko approaches Misaki the day he leaves the note on Kusanagi’s desk, a few hours before. “Misaki, I’m resigning.”

The effect is almost instantaneous—one second Misaki’s eyes are bright and he’s smiling, and the next his mouth is open and he’s frowning in disbelief. “What? But we’re debuting in a month.”

“Yeah.” This is already going wrong. They’ve deviated from the conversation he’d practiced, and while he tries to recover, Misaki takes the silence to mean the end of his response.

“What, did you not want to do this anymore?” Misaki’s voice is getting louder. _No, I didn’t_ , Saruhiko tries to say, but the other has never been one to stop once he’s full force ahead. “Why didn’t you say anything to me, Saruhiko?”

 _I didn’t need to say anything_ is what he tries to say, he’s frustrated, _how can you be this oblivious?_ but what comes out instead is “I don’t fit HOMRA’s concepts. I don’t even _like_ the concepts. Everything’s too rough—the choreo practices are awful. You’re all too loud and annoying and I don’t even like the music.”

(Well, fuck. Fushimi’s gone this far, he might as well commit.) “I’m debuting with you because you’re the only one who can ‘handle me’, Misaki, otherwise they’d’ve kicked me out by now. I’m not staying. I don’t want to.”

Yata is dead still, and when his voice comes out it’s unnervingly steady. Yata is supposed to be _emotional, Misaki, give me something._ “…Weren’t we going to do this together? Y’know—” (Yata stops to chuckle nervously and Fushimi thinks, _not those kinds of emotions_ ) “—like, get famous enough so we’d get to go anywhere we wanted. Even the platform on the fuckin’ sea or whatever you made fun of me for. But we’d get to see everything that wasn’t Shizume. Y’know?”

 _We could still do that together_ is what Fushimi thinks.

“I’m not leaving altogether. We’ll be rivals. I’m auditioning for Scepter 4,” is what Fushimi says.

Yata’s face steels into a frown. “Fine. Fucking fine. Whatever.” His teeth are gritted almost painfully. “Enjoy being such a fucking _brat_ on stage that Scepter 4 completely tanks.”

“Let’s see,” Fushimi retorts with a new sick amusement in his voice, because he’s just so _tired,_ and the conversation has already gone horribly, horribly wrong. “But I learn everything faster than you, don’t you? And oh, they’ll have to rework everything because I bailed, and I’ll end up debuting before you, won’t I?”

“In your fucking dreams,” Yata spits. He pushes past Fushimi, not bothering to be gentle.

Fushimi packs what few things he has while Yata pushes himself in the practice rooms. He leaves the note on Kusanagi’s desk and is gone shortly after.

 

 


	2. Troublemaker

JANUARY 2013

All of the concert's involved parties are ushered into a larger meeting hall, Yata and Fushimi sitting in the front row, and all staff members step up at the front of the room to greet everyone. Totsuka, Suoh, Kusanagi, and Anna stand to one side; Munakata, Awashima, and Gotou stand on the other.

“Today’s meeting is simply to finalize plans and the setlist of all of the units,” Awashima’s voice booms when there’s a lull in conversation. Everyone quiets down. “Practice schedules will also be announced only for the inter-company practices; for further details, please speak to any of us standing up here from your company.”

Before Awashima continues, Totsuka cheers, “Thanks for comin’ in today!”

“…The units involved are as follows: from Scepter 4 we have Fushimi Saruhiko with his manager Awashima Seri—myself—and Alphabet Boys with their manager, Gotou Ren.”

Eric lets out a snort somewhere within the crowd and turns towards their direction. “I’ve wanted to ask this forever, but who the hell named you guys?”

Lost without orders, the unfortunately-named group turn to their leader, who speaks up reluctantly. “...Munakata-san.” Akiyama aims for a more neutral tone, but no one misses the exasperation that comes with anyone who’s ever had the misfortune of being named by Munakata.

“…And from HOMRA Ent., Yata Misaki with his manager Kusanagi Izumo, and OXIDIZE with their manager Totsuka Tatara. Kushina Anna will also be making a brief performance among the feature units of the concert.”

The setlist itself has already been planned, with some empty holes for songs that have yet to be composed. The first half is mostly songs they’ve already released. There are a few new songs where one company performs altogether before passing the stage to another, and the composers play a rough sketch of those on the piano and guitar.

However, after Fushimi and Yata are scheduled for solos, one of the latter’s songs from his first album gets announced instead as their duet. Yata recognizes it as the song they were forced to work through together, after the meeting at WR Ent. “We weren’t just practicing that for _nothing?!”_

“You think we’d do something without purpose? Totsuka might look like a flighty idiot, but he’s got some actual method behind his madness.” Kusanagi snickers at the look on both their faces. “Of course, it’s gonna be a polished version that’s different from Yata-chan’s actual song. But it’ll still be the one you guys practiced back then.”

Kamamoto nudges Yata with his elbow. “Wait, that was you and Fushimi’s debut song before he left, wasn’t it?”

“So straight to the point,” Fushimi mutters, completely unconcerned. Yata looks sour, refusing to answer.

The half of the concert after the intermission is where the majority of the new songs are, and where the mixed units and new songs are performed. The groups are tentatively planned depending on the chemistry between the members, but they’re given rough outlines in terms of setlist and timing.

“The unit names are _Lilac Bloom_ and _Amethyst Forge_ ,” Munakata says proudly, in impeccable English pronunciation. The boys in OXIDIZE suddenly understand the exasperation behind the name _Munakata_. “I named them myself.”

“We know,” someone groans.

“You will also be collaborating to compose the songs and write lyrics within the subunits, if you wish. If not, I have prepared some ideas—“

“I think this’ll be a good exercise,” Benzai says in a panic, “and it’s always nice when we’re given the freedom to compose our own songs.”

“Oh? Excellent. Fushimi-kun, Yata-kun, you two will also be composing and writing your own solo songs to be performed. Since you are both soloists, you have less leniency with your choice to compose or not.”

“So we basically don’t have a choice.” Yata hates the weird roundabout way everyone at Scepter 4 has to say everything, as if the entire company had a mysterious image to keep up.

“Correct.”

Yata mumbles under his breath. “Then just say so in the first place.”

Awashima takes over announcements once again. “We are also releasing a minialbum with the decided subunits, a Fushimi-Yata duet, and an Anna solo in August. These are not the songs you will be composing; those are to be released after the tour is completed, sometime in mid-March.”

Along with the original songs, there are covers are distributed throughout the concert. It all takes an absolute nosedive when Totsuka announces the last cover of the night. “And, it’s Yata-kun and Fushimi-kun! Hmm, everyone knows this one, right?” Totsuka doesn’t even give them time to respond before he hits the play button. Everyone loses it when they hear the popular tune’s familiar opening whistle, including some of those up on stage.

Their heads all turn around to Fushimi and Yata, laughing even harder when they see the looks on their faces.

“Totsuka-san, _the fuck?_ ” Yata stands up from his seat suddenly, at a loss.

The song in question was a particularly risqué one, usually meant as a duet between a man and a woman. Unabashedly sexual in both dance and lyrics, Yata feels the burn flood his entire body, and he thinks he could die from his own body temperature.

And they had to _kiss_ in the end, because the original choreography has the pair _kiss_ in the end, and why do they have to _kiss_ in the end? What the fuck. Yata looks at Fushimi in horror, who is remaining cautiously silent, and thinks about having to kiss _him_.

What the _fuck_.

“Hmm, actually, this was Munakata-san’s idea, wasn’t it?” Totsuka easily passes off the blame to Munakata, who has no shame in it.

The president of Scepter 4 continues to pass the torch of shame around the stage, voice remaining light and conversational, as if he hadn’t just fucking asked Yata to _kiss Fushimi Saruhiko_. “Anna had mentioned it would be entertaining for the audience, and I agree whole-heartedly. Don’t you think so, Yata-kun, Fushimi-kun?”

“'Entertaining',” Dewa chokes out between laughs somewhere within the crowd, “I can’t fuckin’ take this no more.”

The look of betrayal that crosses both of their faces sends everyone in another fit of laughter, although it almost looks like Fushimi’s expected it. “Munakata, you should be fired.”

“Don’t be like that, Fushimi-kun. And isn’t it better that it’s between friends instead of with a random stranger? You’re at least very close, right?” Munakata’s smile is unwavering. Kusanagi speedwalks out of the room, tears streaking down his face from laughter.

Yata is indignant. “Yeah, but we ain’t fuckin’—we ain’t fuckin’ _kissed_ before! It ain’t been like that!” (He ignores the way he opens and closes that statement in the past tense.)

Fushimi sighs, and it sounds infuriatingly resigned. He looks up at the other still standing up, and comments, “Misaki, you’re making this worse. Just roll with it.”

He whips around to Fushimi’s voice, seemingly unaffected as always, and explodes. “And you? Why aren’t you bothered by this?!” This entire time, Fushimi has accepted where Yata thought he’d refuse, and it’s throwing him off, because if they were still _together_ Fushimi would have refused.

Had Scepter 4 been that much of a liberation to him?

“Don’t make assumptions.” Fushimi huffs but still looks much less affected than Yata likes, and Yata nearly punches him in frustration.

“Then why the fuck aren’t you more embarrassed about this?!”

“Are you?” His tone is lost on everyone in the room, still laughing and discussing among themselves, but Yata catches it. “Embarrassed?”

It throws him off guard, still. “Uh, yeah! I’ve got enough fuckin’ problems with my name, I don’t need to be in a dress on top of it!” Fushimi’s question feels weirdly heavy, and Yata is uncomfortable at the silence that follows, so he adds awkwardly: “and, like—wouldn’t. Wouldn’t it be weird. For us. If we, y’know. Especially since we’re still like… weird.”

“Ah, consider it the next stage in your friendship then.” (When the fuck did Totsuka walk up them?) Something glitters in his eyes that reminds Yata of Munakata, and he swears the last thing he’ll ever think is _Munakata and Totsuka-san are never allowed to decide someone’s fates ever again_. “Okay, okay, Yata-kun, no kiss. But you’re taking the female part of the choreo—”

“Absolutely fucking not, Totsuka-san.”

“So will you, Fushimi-kun?” He switches gears on a dime; fall down, get up, repeat. Netizens would often comment that Totsuka’s demeanor almost seemed too sweet for the rough concepts of OXIDIZE, but he’s aggressive in his own way.

Yata doesn’t even let Fushimi try to say anything. “We are not doing this. I am not doing this, god knows Saru’s a fuckin’ freak, he’d probably want to do the girl’s bit, but I’m not doin’ it.”

Totsuka ignores him. “But Fushimi-kun, how about it?”

To Yata’s horror, Fushimi sighs and leans forward to where Anna is standing on stage and he asks, “Really, Anna?”

She nods.

“Are you serious, Anna?”

She nods again. “It’ll be fun, for both of you and the fans.” Someone from OXIDIZE lets out a snort again. “But if Misaki doesn’t want to, I can—”

“No.” The insistence out of Fushimi’s voice takes everyone aback a bit. No one misinterprets it; Anna should not be tainted by this sexual monstrosity of a song. After a few moments, Fushimi leans back in his chair, rubbing at his temples.

“Oh, what’s this?” Doumyouji shouts. “Got a soft spot for HOMRA’s princess?” The room erupts in laughter again and Yata looks absolutely betrayed. Fushimi’s probably doing this to spite him, isn’t he? The teasing isn’t anything new, but it feels more malicious when it’s in front of this many people; now Yata’s the one being unreasonable by complaining so much. Now it’s Yata that can’t survive in the industry with his attitude.

“Doumyouji, do you want to say that again?” Fushimi turns around and the look in his eyes dares anyone to laugh at him. No one does, this time. No one says anything.

“Uh, well. I mean it’s kinda cool, I guess, that you’re breaking out of your usual image.” Doumyouji backtracks helplessly under his gaze. “Y-You’d probably dance great in heels, Fushimi-san.”

Yata doesn’t want him to hold all the power in the room, doesn’t want him to keep asserting how much better he is over Yata, so he squares up and looks dead on at Fushimi. “Then you’d better not fuck up.”

“Then it’s decided. No takebacks!” Totsuka obviously doesn’t care about the tension in the room, so he claps his hands and moves on. Yata finally sits down and keeps his eyes somewhere on the small stage in front of him, avoiding all eye contact.

When the meeting is over, Yata flees the room with the rest of OXIDIZE. Only Awashima, Anna, and Fushimi are left by the time he decides to stand up and get going.

Anna pats him on the arm. He stops, but he doesn’t look at her, because Anna _knows_ like Kusanagi _knows_. She speaks anyway.

“Have fun, okay, Saruhiko?”

He looks down at her, expression unreadable, and the three of them exit the room in silence.

 

* * *

 

Awashima’s driving Fushimi back in a separate car, Alphabet Boys all squeezed in their own van, and the plan is to drop off quickly at Scepter 4 before meeting up again to test the chemistry between the varying subunits.

The two of them get stuck in traffic, and extra time is the last thing Fushimi wants, because extra time is normally filled with conversation. “Isn’t a manager supposed to act in my best interests?” Fushimi says sullenly, leaning his head on the glass.

“Yes, and I believe I did just that.” There’s a hint of amusement in Awashima’s voice.

“So you decided dressing me up in a short dress and high heels and groping Misaki was a great idea.”

“You did accept it willingly; I wasn’t aware you were close with Kushina Anna,” Awashima says in a thoughtful tone. “I was aware that you were familiar with members from HOMRA Ent., but you’d never mentioned any sort of camaraderie.”

At the final sentence, Fushimi lets out a snort. “I’m not, I never was,” he mumbles, “and Anna just... knows you, whether you want her to or not.”

“But you were not unkind to her.”

“Self-preservation. Doing anything to Anna gets you killed.”

His manager smiles to herself, not quite believing. She switches the topic back. “And besides, Fushimi, there is no easing into tension. You tackle it head on.”

Awashima’s forwardness is not unfamiliar, but the wording is. Or at least, it’s unfamiliar for Awashima herself. “…You’ve been talking to Kusanagi-san too much.” His old manager told him that in so many words a year ago, didn’t he? _Stop forcing yourself to debut,_ he said, _leave a letter on my desk and move on with your life._

She lets out a laugh at that. “Maybe. We have been planning this for almost four months, we have all had a lot of time to discuss things.”

“Including your idol’s personal life?”

“The idol’s personal life becomes the public’s interest. Think of this as a way to improve public appearances. And besides—what were your words? ‘You better not fail as a manager’?”

Fushimi plays along with the excuses she offers. “I wasn’t quite that forward.”

“It seemed like it. Is it so bad to be back with Yata?” Questions from her are rare, and so he considers it.

It’s not awful; it’s almost refreshing, being able to stand next to him, to make fun of him again so easily. “It’s nice to see how much taller than him I’ve gotten.”

“Back when you were scouted, you were taller only by a little bit, weren’t you?” Awashima gives a straight question to his vague one.

“Kusanagi-san showed you old photos?”

“Maybe.” She smiles as she turns the corner, watching traffic clear up.

“You’re not usually cryptic. What sort of troublemaking has Kusanagi-san awoken in you?”

“Who knows?”

Fushimi blows air out of his nose; Awashima is giving him a taste of his own medicine, and it's amusing how his normally stoic manager plays with his words.

They drive by the large screens in the heart of Shizume, and—speak of the devil—Yata’s face is smiling down, for a CM of some sort. He looks up at the familiar smiling face and thinks, as he has this past year and a half, that Yata isn’t meant to look down at him from this angle.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NI NUNEUL BOMYEON  
> NAN [TROUBLEMAKER](https://youtu.be/Fh2QwZvR9Js) / [lyrics](https://kpopquote.wordpress.com/2011/12/05/lyric-trouble-maker-trouble-maker-hangul-romanization-english/)
> 
> also sorry in advance if i never mention the song names..? it personally doesn't fit with my writing to do so, which leaves everything really... vague sounding. hopefully it's not too bad though
> 
> just setting things up. please wait warmly ♡  
> 


	3. Liar Rouge

END OF JANUARY 2013

The makeup of Amethyst Forge and Lilac Bloom switch around a bit before the final lineup is chosen (or rather, they chose themselves). Lilac Bloom, with a more laid back image, is made up of Dewa, Shouhei, Fujishima, Doumyouji, Enomoto, Fuse, and Benzai. Amethyst Forge is rougher, and consists of Akiyama, Kamo, Hidaka, Chitose, Eric, Bandou, and Kamamoto.

Shouhei and Hidaka are the unofficial leaders of the subunits. Both of them have decided to compose their songs to spare themselves from Munakata.

Practices go much smoother once everything is sorted out. Much of the first month is spent composing, reworking, and composing again in between their normal events, and by mid-February both their songs are completed.

While practices for the existing songs and covers had started some time ago, ensemble practices only begin around this time. Working the finale together has been an opportunity for all of them to get to know each other. The competition between the two companies turns friendlier, and the rush of exercise is enough for everyone to stay in high spirits with each other.

This extends to Yata and, to a very small extent, Fushimi; the latter never has time to bask in the exercise because he leaves the second practice is over, without fail. He ignores every casual get-together but reluctantly drags himself to birthdays, which is more than anyone would expect from him.

The penultimate song of the entire concert is the new Yata-Fushimi duet and, among other duet practices, are going better than their reunion practice went. When the only thing between them is music and a dance, leaving them no room to bicker or reflect on anything negative, it’s almost like they fall into their old pattern of practicing, nitpicking, and—and _enjoying_ themselves.

All of this goes out the window for their cover song. The first day is frustrating for everyone involved; the choreographer can’t get Yata to move from his corner, frozen with embarrassment, and Fushimi is just wondering when they can start already.

The choreographer gives up and turns his attention to Fushimi instead. “Fushimi-san, are you okay to practice?”

He stretches up from his corner and walks up to him. “Let’s get it over with.”

Yata follows the two of them silently from the corner, watching them rewind the music and try the steps over and over again. Fushimi has always been a fast learner, and he’s only gotten more impressive.

Any sort of courage that Yata’s mustered up dies again as Fushimi follows through the motions with a practiced expression that reveals nothing.

He doesn’t realize how long he’s just been watching them until Fushimi turns to him and says, “this is a duet for _us_ , you know.”

Yata has become so embarrassed he’s confident again, and—at Fushimi’s words—jumps up and immediately starts yelling at him. “I fuckin’ _know_ that, Saru!”

“Then get up here, _Misaki_.” The tone of Fushimi’s voice makes him regret getting up, but he’s already embarrassed himself this much, and he decides that he’s got to follow through, if only not to let Fushimi show him up.

It was a complete mistake.

The choreographer takes him through the steps that Fushimi has vaguely grasped first, and the red that spreads across Yata's face is as bright as a stop sign, which is exactly what he wishes everyone would do: look at the red and _stop_.

Yata screeches every time the choreographer moves his hands some place on Fushimi’s body, and the look on the choreographer’s face wishes for death. Fushimi’s watching their reflection idly, head always faced towards the mirror.

“Misaki, have you forgotten to turn on your stage personality today?” Fushimi says, absolutely bored (which is a sin, really).

“Have you forgotten to turn off your fucking _I’m-a-huge-asshole_ switch? Oh, wait, you never fuckin’ had one!”

“Eloquent.”

Fushimi presses his back against Yata, already in place for the beginning, and he jumps apart in surprise.  “What th—”

“It’s part of the choreo, you moron.” Fushimi sighs. “The more you avoid it, the worse it’s gonna get.”

Yata looks at his back and then at the choreographer, who gestures towards Fushimi’s back once again. With a groan, Yata presses his back against him again and he thinks: _tall. Saruhiko got taller._

At the press of Yata back up against him, he nearly laughs. “Misaki, you’re shaking. And you’re so warm.” Yata pushes back violently against him and he _actually_ lets out a breath.

“Shut the fuck up. I hate you.”

“Likewise.”

He hates to admit that Awashima is right about tackling the tension head on. Even through his nervousness Yata moves around him, drawing him in. It’s why Fushimi dragged himself to Scepter 4 in the first place, rather than staying out of the industry altogether; when you burn as bright as Yata does, only brighter lights can be seen through your own flame.

The choreographer stops them within the first few steps because Yata refuses to touch Fushimi. “Yata-san, you have to do this.”

“I know, I know! Just—this is really fucking _awkward_ ,” Yata complains, “Can you even do this, Saru?”

Without a word, Fushimi stands behind him and runs his hands up his thighs, humming lightly. His reaction draws an even bigger smile out of Fushimi, the swift punch to his head not deterring it in the slightest.

“You fuckin’ bastard,” he starts, and the choreographer tries to cut them off quickly.

“Fushimi-san, why won’t you do the male part then?”

“He’s not fuckin’ allowed!” Yata screams immediately. The two of them stare at him in surprise. “I-I mean, I’m not letting him t-touch me, what the fuck.”

“Then touch _me,_ Misaki,” and Fushimi can barely hold the cackle in his voice. The choreographer slumps in a seat, defeated. “Do you boys want to finish for the day?”

He’s surprised to get the same _no_ yelled at him, and he stands up out of pure confusion. “…Okay, from the top, first few seconds.”

Standing back to back again, Yata tries to elbow the other in the back. Fushimi leans all of his body weight on him, familiar and warm.

 

* * *

  

While Amethyst Forge and Lilac Bloom openly share song ideas with each other, Yata and Fushimi keep theirs under wraps—first out of secrecy, then evolving into an unspoken competition. Yata is at a loss; his songs take time, and he doesn’t understand how Fushimi is already working with the composer within the first week of the announcement.

But there’s only one thing Fushimi’ll ever write about, given the chance, and there’s only one reason he’s _still_ around, isn’t there?

The tune comes to him easily; he’s been mulling over a new song since the December before the announcement. It’s not that he hates writing music—although there is deviation, there are set rules which he uses to piece things together. Emotional expression has never been his forte but there’s something easy about molding vague words to become more and more personal, and suddenly it’s about _Yata Misaki_. At some point, he just lets it happen.

He brings his bass to sessions with the composer, playing the bassline while suggesting melodic direction. The more he works on the song, the simpler the layers get; he decides on a band with himself on the bass and singing a light melody that betrays the desperation of his lyrics.

He brings his bass to a duet practice, just once. That night, he had no time to drop by his dorm between duet practices and when he’s scheduled himself with the composer, and he runs into the practice room with the instrument case slung over his shoulder.

Yata is practicing steps when this happens. His eyes flick up to make eye contact with Fushimi, down slightly to the bass, and back up to him. Fushimi swears there’s a hint of a smile as he turns back to his practicing.

 

* * *

 

_JULY 2012_

Both Fushimi and Yata debut in late January 2012 on the same debut stages. No one knows who they are in relation to each other except Kusanagi; he looks at the way they stand to the extremes of the stage, avoiding each other, and he allows himself a small laugh.

At debut, they leave great first impressions; from then on, they separate. For the first six months, Fushimi sees Yata only in passing. Advertising CDs, live stages, more CMs—his energetic personality is entrancing, and Yata is kept busy.

Fushimi is no slouch himself. Awashima remembers being assigned to him, his sharp blue eyes betraying the laziness of his posture, and his first words being “don’t fail me”.

“What are you working for, Fushimi?” She matches his cool gaze with curtness of her own. The air is frigid as they stare each other down; finally, Fushimi falters and looks off to the side. He clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Doesn’t matter.”

Awashima’s smile softens slightly before lighting up with a new vigor. “I’ll hold your word to it.”

She’s certainly ready to work him to the bone for the motivation that Fushimi will not divulge. His aloof image brings him a lot of attention on talk shows and various appearances around the main islands, and while he complains endlessly every opportunity he can, his gears switch completely the moment his heels make the first  _click_ on stage.

Six months into his debut and a year of working with him, and it still surprises Awashima. Talk shows like the one they’re doing today used to make her nervous (because _Fushimi_ and _talking about his personal life_ has never gone well), but he becomes an expert at dodging questions and telling half-truths. It adds to his mysterious image, anyway, and everyone eats it up.

“Kinda impressive how Fushimi-kun can do that, huh.” A voice comes from behind Awashima that she vaguely recognizes as Yata’s manager; they were only briefly introduced to each other before the show began.

“…Do what?” She’s wary of the manager’s intentions. They are in an industry, after all, and she can only imagine that he’s similarly trying to get information out of her as Fushimi’s manager.

“Switch so easily like that. Does he still whine backstage about the lights blinding him through his glasses?”

Awashima knows that Fushimi used to be with HOMRA Ent., but he’d never elaborate on his reasons for leaving or his own experiences there. Unable to anticipate the other manager’s next move, she says nothing.

“Ah, we didn’t get a chance to meet, did we?” The man clasps his hands together and winks. Awashima frowns at him, and it only serves to make his smile larger. “Kusanagi Izumo. Yata Misaki’s current manager, Fushimi Saruhiko’s former.” He sticks out a hand.

“…Awashima Seri. Fushimi Saruhiko’s current manager.” Awashima shakes his hand once before dropping it.

“Ah, Fushimi-kun must really enjoy having you as a manager. You’re so business-like.”

“We are in a _business_ , Kusanagi-san. It helps to be businesslike in a business.”

“Lighten up, Seri-chan, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the future.”

Her eyes narrow at the nickname. “Call me Awashima _._ What makes you say that?”

“I suppose it’s better to let you watch.” He quiets down as he leans back against his seat, and the two of them turn their attention to the live feed.

It’s before the show starts, and the hosts are still moving around stage. Fushimi looks at ease in his armchair, but Yata looks more high-strung than usual.

“On in two,” someone behind stage shouts, and Yata jumps in surprise. Fushimi easily rolls over so he’s almost leaning on Yata’s chair and mumbles something that looks like _lighten up, Misaki_.

 _Don’t tell me to lighten up, you—you little shit,_ he grits back, _not after you made things so fuckin’ hard for me._

“Mics on, everything on in thirty seconds,” the stage hand yells again. Fushimi doesn’t bother to return to his individual pose.

The lights fade in and the crowd starts cheering. The hosts are energetic and Yata perks up a little bit, introducing himself cheerily.

The questions are about each other straight off the bat. Things like, _Yata-kun, how do you feel about you and Fushimi-kun’s debut at the same time? You haven’t been on a stage together since the debut shows, right?_

“Yeah, we don’t see a lot of each other, even though I guess people talk about us all the time,” Yata says with a forced ease. “We only ever had the debut stages but we got so busy that we haven’t been on shows together until just now, yeah? And I got a completely different image from… Fushimi, so it kinda makes sense we don’t end up on the same kinda performances, right?”

“Huh, that’s weird,” Kusanagi mumbles, ten minutes into the show. Catching the puzzled look on Awashima’s face, he elaborates. “Yata-kun never calls him ‘Fushimi’.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Kusanagi lets Fushimi’s drawling tone ring out the screen to answer for him. “You’re rambling, Misaki.”

Yata’s reaction is instantaneous. “Saru, what the hell, why don’t _you_ say something then?”

The hosts start _ooh_ ing and _aah_ ing at the atmosphere of the room—despite Yata’s sudden outburst of irritation, it feels like something’s loosened up. Kusanagi chuckles at the look on Awashima’s face. “Well, Fushimi-kun did it anyway. He was one of ours in HOMRA, but he looked miserable. Would’ve been nice if he stayed, he’s a nice kid, but life takes you places, I suppose.”

“I knew he was from HOMRA Ent. before coming here, but I didn’t expect to run into his former manager. What makes you think they’ll ask for the two of them back, together? They’re _arguing_ ,” Awashima says in slight horror. Fushimi is never this animated. If it’s to rile someone up, she wonders whether this is a good idea.

“He and Yata-chan were meant to debut together. From what I remember, they were best friends even before that. They were scouted together too,” Kusanagi says with a chuckle. “Old habits are hard to break. And they’ve always had good chemistry.”

The hosts interject before Fushimi has a chance to bite back. “Yata-kun, I thought you didn’t like anyone calling you by your first name?”

“I don’t,” he says, pointedly looking at Fushimi. “But some people obviously need _years_ to get the message.”

“So hostile, _Misaki_.” A grin plays on Fushimi’s features, unheard of so far in all of his performances. Some fans in the crowd cheer at the smirk on his face. “And what’s with the ‘Fushimi’? Are we strangers now?”

“We might as well be, _Saru_.” Yata spits his name out, but a smirk of his own tugs at his lips, and he can’t seem to bite it down.

“So how did you know each other? No one could’ve guessed you two were already so friendly with each other, this is a complete surprise!”

The awkward mood returns. After a beat too long, Yata responds. “We knew each other as trainees.”

“But aren’t you two from the most competitive companies? I’d think that trainees at either HOMRA Ent. or Scepter 4 would be working hard _against_ each other until they debut, not _with_ each other!”

“It happens.” Fushimi flicks his hand, uncaring. “And besides, _Misaki_ and I ended up in the same place anyway, didn’t we?”

It diffuses the air again and the rest of the talk show continues without too much incident. “There’s bound to be _some_ sort of incident when the two of them are together,” Kusanagi throws out to her, “they’ve always been so back and forth.”

Awashima silent for the rest of the show until it ends, at which belatedly she responds to Kusanagi. “Get them on as many shows together as you can.”

Fushimi seems the same on stage but with more of a purpose to his actions, and he shows more emotions than his default “cool, composed, and bored”. And besides, she thinks she can start to piece together what Fushimi’s aiming for and why he’s so reluctant to tell her anything.

“Ah, Seri-chan, you’ll have to work with me on that one.”  He sticks out his hand again, but the look in his eyes _actually_ means business.

She has no qualms in agreeing this time, but the use of the nickname almost makes her reconsider.

 

* * *

 

_Welcome to WILDCROW, a Yata Misaki fansite! We are Yatagarasu, ~spread our wings~!_

_Now, we have a couple of rules here, and they’re universal for every Yata Misaki fan, so listen up!_

_The first and most important: **Don’t call our Yata-kun “Misaki”!** It’s his first name but he mentions a lot that he doesn’t like it  >_< So please respect our beautiful Yata-kun at fansigns and concerts and cheer on our Yata-kun! Yatagarasu!_

 

_…_

 

**TOPIC: [20120815] AN IDOL’S WORLD EPISODE 210 FT. YATA MISAKI, FUSHIMI SARUHIKO**

[120815, 17:15:23] #548169:   
_Eh?! Scepter 4’s Fushimi Saruhiko just called him “Misaki” when they were on the same show together?! He has no respect!!! >___< He didn’t even apologize to our Yatagarasu!!!_

 

[120815, 17:21:58] #548398:  
>>548169  
_Yata-kun was really angry though!!_

 

[120815, 17:23:35] #548456:  
>>548169  
>>548398  
_unpopular opinion but I don’t think he was >_< he called him ‘Saru’ right back, but Fushimi-san didn’t get all angry like he did when anyone else says his name. Do you think they knew each other before?_

 

[120815, 17:28:02] #548601:  
>>548456  
_well, this is the first show they’ve been in together since they both debuted… and when they talk about predebut days they’ve never mentioned each other… but Yata-kun is so tsundere >< it’s a crack ship but I’m starting it right now!!! YataShimi wwwww_

 

[120815, 17:29:24] #548630:  
>>548601  
_eh? Wouldn’t it be cuter if it was the names they called each other? I vote SaruMi wwww_

 

[120815, 17:30:20] #548751:  
>>548456  
>>548601  
>>548630  
_shut up you delusional idiots_  
_take your fujoshit to your containment board and don't ship real people_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Liar Rouge](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XZVj1_xBxdU) & [lyrics](http://www.project-imas.com/wiki/Liar_Rouge#Lyrics)  
> 


	4. To Become the Blue Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i edited the tag to say the slow burn tag is not a joke. even _i'm_ dying at my own slow burn tag

LATE FEBRUARY 2013

Tuesdays are mixed unit days. This week, they meet at HOMRA Ent.

“People are starting to notice that OXIDIZE and Alphabet Boys are appearing together.” Fuse sits down with his food with the rest of Lilac Bloom. They barely register him speaking; practices leave them absolutely starved.

“There’s only so much we can travel back and forth between buildings without anyone noticing,” Akagi finally responds through mouthfuls of food. “And, like, fans are crazy perceptive, they’re probably already brainstorming on forums ‘n’ shit. They love their boys.”

“Especially Yata and Fushimi-san. And of course, all the fangirls are like, 'oh my god, like, when do they make out?'—and really, I'm asking the same thing—” Benzai knocks Doumyouji with his shoulder in the middle of biting his sandwich, and he chokes.

“Eh, he does have a point.” Fujishima mulls over it for a second. “They _were_ always kinda close back in HOMRA Ent.”

“This is like some cheesy friends-to-rivals-to-friends again thing,” Enomoto mumbles.

Everyone glances at him. Fuse asks, out of honest curiosity, “Is that like... some anime term?”

“It’s _exactly what it sounds like_ , not everything I say is ‘some anime term’,” he replies with exasperation.

“Anyway, Fushimi seemed kinda depressed up until the moment he left.” Fujishima had been at HOMRA Ent. the longest out of all of them, and pauses eating to remember more specifics. “Like, he was really good at everything, but he always looked two seconds away from telling everyone to fuck off and die.”

“Didn’t he do that a couple of times? Tell us to fuck off and die?” Dewa chuckles at the (apparently) fond memory, but leaves Fujishima to finish.

“Not quite that harsh. But he always stayed, y’know? And he was more awkward than full of loathing when we all told him ‘good luck’ as trainees, remember? It pissed me off the time, especially ‘cause Yata was so upset for ages, but it doesn’t seem like he ever hated us.”

Dewa hums in agreement. The conversation ends.

 

* * *

 

Yata and Fushimi have an hour break for lunch before they practice their new duet’s choreography. Totsuka and Kusanagi follow them, while the rest of the managers observe the mixed units.

“Grab lunch and then come up to my office, okay?” Totsuka leans his head out of the practice room to call at the two of them walking down the hallway. “I need your opinion on something.”

Moments after practices are easy; Fushimi’s never been one to linger when a job is done, and he disappears in the blink of an eye when practices turn into breaks, leaving Yata to go down for lunch alone with the managers. When Fushimi _is_ dragged along, he buys food and sits away, letting the other three discussing amongst themselves.

Today, the air is charged. “We should take a break,” Kusanagi had said, after Yata had started two beats too early for the umpteenth time that practice. Yata’s in a bad mood, and while his short temper is nothing new to Fushimi, there’s something lying underneath that irritation that has him intrigued.

On a whim, Fushimi follows him to lunch. Neither Kusanagi or Totsuka are coming today, staying behind in the latter’s office, and the rest of the subunits have their break half an hour later than they do. Yata opens the door to the stairwell with more force than necessary, and Fushimi follows close behind him.

“Oi, Misaki.” Fushimi feels the syllables roll around his mouth, with no particular intent in mind, other than to make Yata’s reason for his jumpiness more obvious.

“The fuck do you want?” Yata doesn’t turn around. In fact, he picks up his pace.

“Oh? What’s got you so on edge?” His voice lilts upwards, masking his discomfort with false amusement.

“Working with _you_ has got me on edge.” Yata whips around. “I get it, you left HOMRA Ent., you’re with Scepter 4 now, and now that you’re back with your _old_ company, you decide it’s not worth your time or effort and you just shit your way through the practices because you _know_ you can do better. You piss me the fuck off, Saru.”

“I see you’ve gotten a lot of exercise doing all those mental gymnastics this past year,” Fushimi drawls. For someone who tries to calculate every outcome, he can never quite plan for Yata, and he tries to push the other away further so he can have time to build proper walls back up again.

“Can you take me seriously for _once_ in your life? How many times do I have to ask you to take me seriously in _practices_ , at the very least?” Yata spits.

“I take you _very_ seriously, Misaki.” Fushimi is honest, but his tone isn’t, and it sounds as though he’s mocking the other rather than reassuring him.

“Why can’t you just say things straight out and not act like a dick about things? Did Scepter 4 train you how not to be straightforward and just not say what you mean?”

“It’s not like I’ve changed since I left.”

“No, you haven’t. You just use your fucking stage face on _me_ now so you can get through whatever we need to do for the day. I’m on the receiving end of your bullshit, now.” Without waiting for a retort, Yata storms down with footsteps slapping angrily against the concrete.

Fushimi stands there, waiting until he hears the door at the bottom of the stairwell close, before turning to walk upstairs.

He passes the floor that Totsuka’s office is on. The north staircase is the one that leads up to the roof, and although the snow hasn’t quite melted fully, Fushimi takes his chances with the cold. Getting his jacket would require returning to the practice room, which he wants to avoid as much as possible.

The cold has his breath rising up into the February air; his ears are still ringing because of the way Yata’s shout echoed in the stairway, and he rubs his temples. The roof was a better idea in theory, but if Fushimi’s at HOMRA Ent., there’s nowhere else to go that would give him this much privacy.

 _Misaki would know you’re here,_ he thinks. _Misaki would find you._ Fushimi only knows this place because Yata would drag him around the building to explore. The roof ended up being their favourite place, because HOMRA Ent. towered over many of the surrounding buildings, leaving them unseen from other offices or the pedestrians.

Fushimi lets himself think absentmindedly, pacing along the borders of the building and the sky.

He stops at the corner. _“Saru, do you think there are stages this big?”_ Yata had shouted, more to the open sky than to anyone in particular.

Fushimi remembers his response: _“Hey, get away from the ledge,_ _that’s not your stage._ ” The wind blows strong up on top of the roof, and Yata had looked so small he could have let it carry him away.

 _“It’s not my stage unless you’re on there with me!_ ”

Fushimi remembers the end of that exchange and wrinkles his nose in distaste. Yata has always been able to hold a stage on his own, and he quickly learns the golden rule of “never turn your back to the audience”. But the fans stand on one side of Yata while he stands on the other, and so as long as Yata keeps facing forward, Fushimi can do nothing but stand in his shadow.

Even now, with this damned company tour, putting them on the same stage, Yata is still pushing for them to be together.

“You never change, Misaki. Can't have your cake and eat it, too.” Fushimi lets the wind carry his words away for a moment. He walks back to the staircase with the intent to leave, because retreating to the roof out of habit has the uncomfortable implication that Fushimi hasn’t changed much, either.

 

* * *

 

He walks into Totsuka’s office after warming up in the bathroom in the attempt to remove all evidence that he’d been outside.

“Oh? Did you not eat lunch, Fushimi-kun?”

“I ate quickly.” He settles in the chair in the farthest corner, leaning his head on the window.

“You need to take care of yourself if you’ve got practice all day long.” Totsuka states this plainly, but Fushimi can hear the suspicion in his voice. He subconsciously leans closer towards the window and wills an escape.

Yata walks through the door to Totsuka’s office five minutes later, still eating lunch. He grabs the other chair and drags it as far away from Fushimi as possible. “What’s up?”

“Well, fans are starting to notice us at HOMRA Ent. and Scepter 4 together, as much as we try to keep it under wraps. They’re especially keeping an eye on you two. That’s to be expected, considering how you boys always are when you end up anywhere together.” Totsuka starts clicking through his computer while he speaks. “So I wanna give them something to sink their teeth into, keep 'em all interested in you two until we announce the tour. Come closer to the desk.”

They do, reluctantly. Totsuka turns his screen around and shows them an open folder with old pictures.

The two of them are shocked out of their earlier tension. The photos are from almost three years ago, when Kusanagi was both of their managers and Totsuka was finishing his business degree to join him and Suoh. Yata and Fushimi just happened to be under Kusanagi at the time, which led to their predebut days being documented but never released.

“I dug up all your old photos, but I wanna make sure you guys are okay with the ones I pick before I put them up on my blog, and then I thought, ‘why don’t I just make you guys pick some?’” He hands the mouse to them after struggling with the cord, and Yata starts scrolling through reluctantly.

Predictably, it’s a lot of pictures with Yata in the centre. Fushimi is usually there, but never quite the main focus—if he is, he’s solo.

“Yata-kun’s always had a way of bringing the camera to him, but you’re quite handsome on your own, Fushimi-kun,” Totsuka tries to reassure them. He gets no response. Yata looks as though he’s been betrayed, and Fushimi is keeping his expression guarded.

Most of the photos are of them in practice rooms and around HOMRA Ent., a few in their dorms, and the occasional ones of them walking around. “Totsuka-san, I kind of don’t want any of these up. I look so lame.” Yata stares at his rounder face and his small stature next to the sharp but lanky Fushimi, and is filled once again with the sense of being out of place.

“Eh, Yata-kun, I think you look cute. And this picture’s kinda nice, right? It looks brighter than the rest, it’s probably outside—let’s see.” Totsuka points to the photo that the cursor is hovering on, and Yata clicks on it.

It looks dead in the heat of summer. Kusanagi is closer to the camera, making sure not to block the other two, throwing a peace sign up. Yata and Fushimi have their backs to the camera, caught laughing mid-conversation. Despite the heat, Yata is leaning on him, eyes bright with laughter, and Fushimi looks as though he’s trying to commit the moment to memory.

The room is silent.

Yata remembers this; they were on the bridge that connected Totsuka’s old university with Shizume, walking with him back to HOMRA Ent. to begin practices for the day.

He can’t remember Fushimi’s words, but he remembered how his eyes shone bright blue, as if he gathered the colours of the sea behind them. The tightening in his chest loosens when the Fushimi next to him in present time leans back and clicks his tongue, looking out the window again. “No.”

Totsuka looks expectantly to Yata, who also looks away. “I gotta get something done before next practice. Do whatever you want, Totsuka-san.” His compliance contrasts with the violent way he kicks up from his chair and storms out of the office.

Fushimi wants to make his escape too—preferably not back to the roof—but Totsuka stops him before he has the chance to leave. “Are you sure about this photo?”

 _So insistent._ “I know I can't stop you from posting, but pick a different one.”

“Don’t you want the fans to see you both smiling?” If Scepter 4 has trained Fushimi for anything, it’s to recognize the undercurrent of a conversation running parallel with the one that’s being vocalized. Totsuka is asking a hidden question there, Fushimi _knows_ , and doesn’t want to answer it.

“It conflicts with my image, Totsuka-san. Smiling doesn't equate well with aloof.”

Totsuka, sneaky little Totsuka, only looks up at him and smiles. "But the most important part about being an idol is making people happy, right, Fushimi-kun? And nothing makes other people happy like seeing their favourite people happy."

Fushimi feels a frown deepen at his words. "Why aren't _you_ an idol? You're certainly campy enough to be one," he scoffs.

"Ah, it's not my forte." Totsuka sighs and leans back further into his chair, ever-present smile not fading in the slightest. "I just like to help out when I can."

 

* * *

 

Yata goes wherever his feet take him. It leads him to the clunky door leading to the roof.

His hands close around the cold metal of the handle when he decides that it’s all too sentimental, so he turns around and tries to find somewhere else.

He ends up outside, anyway. Leaning against the brick wall behind the building, he kicks at the remnants of snow beneath his feet.

It’s weird, seeing pictures of him and Saruhiko like that. When they were happy—or at least, when Yata was. He feels himself scowl at the memory of Saruhiko’s departure, at _how obvious it was_ that he wanted to leave, _Misaki_ , and how nonchalant he’s been since this entire mess started.

 _Yeah, no big deal, I’ll just leave my best friend behind and go join another company and be their best artist and come back to rub it in my face—ah, fuck._ On good days, Yata _almost_ enjoys working with him again, and their bickering doesn’t feel as malicious. Where it feels like they _could_ be friends again.

This is one of those bad days, where he thinks that Saruhiko will never get over himself.

He just wants to wipe the look of Saruhiko’s face, or the lack of one; he’s been infuriatingly neutral throughout this entire ordeal, bordering on bored, and Yata wants to get _any_ sort of reaction out of him at this point.

His cellphone’s ringtone breaks him out of his thoughts; it’s five minutes to practice now. Kusanagi's name blinks on the screen, and Yata dismisses the call as he opens the door to head to the practice rooms.

 

* * *

 

In the end, Totsuka uploads a few neutral shots of them in the practice room onto his blog. Pictures where both of them look focused on the task ahead of them, where they’re simply just tired, or drinking water, or giving peace signs to Totsuka’s camera.

_"They grow up so fast, don’t they! Don’t stop working hard, Fushimi-kun, Yata-kun!"_

The story of them being friends pre-debut is one that has been mentioned in passing by both of them on talk shows, but there was never any photo proof before Totsuka came along. The comments are of shock and excitement (and speculation, because  _how did Totsuka Tatara, OXIDIZE's and Kushina Anna's manager, even get these photos?),_ but more importantly, they do what they're meant to. 

Fushimi scrolls down the comments of Totsuka's blog, groaning in frustration at all the comments expressing the desire for a Yata-Fushimi collaboration. Playing nice is not an option anymore; it's an obligation. 

He leaves an anonymous comment, although he has a feeling Totsuka will have no problem guessing it's him.

_You just keep causing trouble, don't you, Totsuka-san?_

 

* * *

 

 _AUGUST 2010  
_ _TANABATA_

Kusanagi is sitting on a brick ledge, and Totsuka is next to him, kicking his feet against the hot asphalt. Even though it’s been hours since the sun has set, the heat has yet to leave, and he’s left fanning himself hopelessly. “You gotta bring your camera everywhere?”

“It’ll be fun to look back at this later when they debut, right?” He fiddles with the settings on his camera to balance the darkness of the night with the warm festival lights. Fushimi and Yata walk ahead of them, pointing at all the different stalls and planning what food to buy.

“You’re like a really awful stalker fan, y’know.”

“A stalker fan invited by the manager himself? And besides, they don’t mind, right? You asked them?”

“Of course I did, only because they—or at least, Yata-chan can trust you not to put those pictures anywhere.” Kusanagi sighs. “Are you in business or filmmaking?”

“Filmmaking _is_ a business,” Totsuka grins. He deflects everything easily without a care, and Kusanagi decides that he’ll do fine working with HOMRA Ent.

He switches on the camera.

_“Totsuka here, because Yata-kun’s dragged us all out to the festival! It’s quarter to midnight and summer is definitely here because it is hot, even at night!” He walks towards the other two and raises his voice. “It’s so gross out, Yata-kun.”_

_“Tanabata in the heat of summer’s the best time for street food, yeah?” Misaki’s turned around to be centre of the camera; Saruhiko’s walked on ahead, buying them food at a stall. “Oh, wait, Totsuka-san, pass that.”_

_“Here you go,” Totsuka says in a sing-songy voice. Misaki points it at him so he can give a quick peace sign, Kusanagi waving tiredly in the background, and he runs off in Fushimi’s direction._

_Saruhiko finishes paying and is holding four chocobananas with mild difficulty. Misaki shouts at him, “Oi, Saru!” The taller boy automatically turns to his voice and looks away a split second later._

_“Saru, say hi to the camera!”_

_“Eh, Misaki, don’t film me,” Saruhiko whines. It doesn’t sound completely annoyed, and has an edge of amusement to it._

_“How’re you gonna debut if you can’t even look at Totsuka-san’s camera?”_

_“I’ll figure it out, now shut up, or I won’t give you your food!”_

_The video cuts off abruptly while Misaki is mid-laugh._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Bokura wa Aozora ni Naru](http://www.nicovideo.jp/watch/sm28795804) (this is the only video i could find of the full song lol) / [lyrics](https://spicameteor.wordpress.com/2015/12/11/777%E2%98%86sisters-%E5%83%95%E3%82%89%E3%81%AF%E9%9D%92%E7%A9%BA%E3%81%AB%E3%81%AA%E3%82%8B-lyrics-translation/#more-864)  
> [Sora](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gC_GhQmxtpA) / [lyrics](http://www.project-imas.com/wiki/Sora#Lyrics)


	5. Hello, My Friend

MARCH 2013

March signals the beginning of the rainy season. The gloomy sudden downpours leave some of the members more sluggish, and for a while there is a bigger focus on composing the songs, giving the members a bit of leeway.

The room for Scepter 4’s composing has windows that overlook the blinking lights of Shizume, not quite in the distance. The rain has been beating across the window the whole day, and it feels as though it’ll last an eternity.

Leaning his bass along the wall, Fushimi sits on the piano bench and faces out. Something about the weather gets him to draw out one of the composers at Scepter 4 to continue writing his song.

There’s no other light in the room except for the periodic flashes of lightning, illuminating the serene look on his face. _Sudden evening showers, huh._ He rolls the words around his head and they snag on old memories.

_(“The rain’s supposed to last all night, Saru!”)_

“You idiot.”

The composer flicks the light on when she walks in, and Fushimi blinks to adjust to the sudden light. As remnants of her dinner thrown into the garbage, Fushimi stands up off the piano bench so she can sit. “Good evening, Fushimi-san. A strange time of night for you to be bringing in new ideas.”

She gets straight to the point, and Fushimi can appreciate that; it leaves no room for pleasantries. He brings out his bass alongside with the paper with hastily scribbled chords.

The room is silent except for the beating of rain against the window and strings slowly becoming in tune. Fushimi mouth twitches slightly upwards at the way the sounds in the air mingle. “It’s the rain.”

 

* * *

 

The windshield wipers squeak. It’s irritating. He’s trying to work on lyrics, and the rain is setting the mood, but the windshield wipers are squeaking. They’re squeaking. They squeak, endlessly. They—

_The evening shower came, and—_

“You have a live stage today, Fushimi.” Awashima warily eyes the half eaten croissant in Fushimi’s hand, the remnants of a small breakfast.

“I haven’t forgotten,” he responds with a hint of annoyance. They’re _on the way there_ ; really, it’s not like it had escaped his mind so easily.

Crumbs fall from the croissant and into his lap. His fingers are greasy. It’s much too early for this.

_Taking shelter in a—_

“I don’t know how much the makeup artists can do with those bags under your eyes.” Her tone is scolding, and he knows that it’s her way of worrying about him. Just knowing that makes it get on his nerves even more.

“I’m busy and I’m _fine_ , Awashima-san.” He frowns and taps his finger on the croissant, making more crumbs fall in his lap. _Great._

_I took shelter in a building—_

The windshield wipers are still squeaking. The rain beats down harder, and the squeaking increases in frequency. Fushimi feels a headache coming on. He finishes the final bite of the croissant.

Awashima adds the noise of her tapping her finger against the steering wheel to the cacophony, and it feels as though Fushimi is witness to a concert from hell. “The composer tells me you’ve been staying in the piano rooms much later than when she leaves.”

“And?”

“And,” she continues, “it’s not healthy.”

 _I took shelter in a familiar building,  
_ _And in there, I found you—_

“My performance hasn’t wavered. This argument is pointless. I’m _working_.” He feels like a sullen child as he leans his head against the window and closes his eyes. Lyrics escape him for the time being, and he leaves it for a later date.

Awashima’s sigh is long-suffering, but she, too, gives in.

 

* * *

 

Chitose, Eric, and Bandou are performing alongside Fushimi for a charity event. Their performances fall roughly on everyone else’s lunch break, so they gather in a break room with a decent television with their lunches.

(Some fans think it’s a not just a coincidence that the OXIDIZE boys have their performance scheduled right before Fushimi’s, and backstage clips of the artists at the charity event are later uploaded and analysed; _look_ , the comments say, _Chitose and Fushimi are interacting! HOMRA Ent. and Scepter 4 are doing something weird together, aren’t they? Is it gonna be like Heavenbound again? I hope it's like Heavenbound!_

As always, other comments are quick to respond: _you morons. Artists always interact with each other backstage. It's normal.)_

Some of the more social Alphabet Boys, the rest of OXIDIZE, and Yata spill off the couches and onto the floor of the HOMRA Ent. main lounge. It’s already partway through Chitose and co.’s performance, and some of the members are sending them rapid-fire texts making fun of them as others comment and take pictures.

“Ah, they grow up so fast,” Akagi says mock-sweetly as he zooms his phone camera in on Chitose’s face and takes an unflattering picture.

The drizzle starts up again, so between songs they run backstage and come back out with bright yellow raincoats. The room erupts in laughter at Eric’s sour face contrasting against the harsh colour, but they finish their last song as professionally as ever.

Fushimi is up next, and some of the other Alphabet Boys come in to watch their senior. He’s donning a clear raincoat instead, but the annoyance on his face is clear for a split second before he hardens himself.

Even under less than ideal conditions, there’s a bitterness that settles in Yata’s gut as Fushimi’s performance is nothing less than flawless. It’s as if the rain weren’t starting to come down just a bit harder, as if the raincoat complemented his stage costume rather than hindered it.

“Whoa, Fushimi-san’s killing it,” Benzai mumbles under his breath, and right at that moment Fushimi slips.

His feet come out from underneath him and the next second he’s a mess of limbs on the stage. While everyone’s focused on the aftermath, Yata frowns as he mentally replays the brief second before the fall. Did he twist his ankle?

Hidaka smacks Benzai on the back, who makes a choking noise. “Way to ruin it, Benzai.”

“No, look, Fushimi-san’s still fine.” And Fushimi does look alright; it mercifully happens towards the end of his last song, and so in natural Fushimi fashion, he gets back up again without even the hint of a grimace and finishes the final seconds of the choreography.

He walks off the stage with what everyone calls grace and what Yata calls badly disguised discomfort.

“Yo, he’s not okay,” Yata says, lips pursed in frustration at the screen.

There’s a brief beat of silence, and then Akiyama speaks. “Are you sure, Yata-san? He seemed to have walked off just fine.”

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ sure, he _always_ did this. He’s always just a stubborn piece of shit.”

“Oh, yeah, you’ve probably worked with him a lot closer, haven’t you?” Benzai muses out loud as he observes the screen again; the hosts have done a small introduction and moved on to the new performers.

“God fucking dammit, Saruhiko, you fucking idiot,” he mutters, whipping his phone out. Worrying about Fushimi is something he’s decided he’ll take into his own hands, because _Fushimi works alone._ He fucking works alone, and Yata’s the only one who ever saw him push himself as hard as he did, working through anything from the flu to mild discomforts to nearly broken legs.

(And as he types up an angry text to send to Fushimi, he thinks: _don’t get ahead of yourself, Yata, Kusanagi-san’s seen him, and Totsuka-san’s seen him, and Awashima-san’s probably seen him like this too._ His brain helpfully supplies: _you aren’t anything special.)_

 **To: _saruhiko_ (** **╬** **Ò** **‸** **Ó** **)**  
[12:46] dude we all saw your ankle  
[12:46] sit  
[12:46] the  
[12:47] FUCK  
[12:47] down  
[12:47] don’t act like it doesn’t hurt because I know it does  
[12:48] stop pretending your walking fine coz u aint

 **From: _saruhiko_ (** **╬** **Ò** **‸** **Ó** **)**  
[12:49] *You’re.  
[12:51] Didn’t know you cared, Misaki.

Yata’s first thought at the text he receives is _Of course I care, idiot;_ his anger shifts from the way Fushimi’s neglected his health and instead redirects it to the fact that Fushimi thinks that Yata Misaki, one of his oldest friends for better or for damn worse, _actually cares about him._

 **To: _saruhiko_ (** **╬** **Ò** **‸** **Ó** **)**  
[12:53] yes i care r u a fuckin idiot  
[12:53] fuckin whoop de doo. SURPRISE asshole  
[12:53] YOU’RE  <<<<<<<<<<<<<< (fuck u I spelt it right this time) still my friend  
[12:54] i think  
[12:54] u piss me offf but like I don’t HATE u  
[12:54] its just who u r as a person and as an asshole  
[12:55] -_____-  
[12:56] and  >>>>>YOU’RE<<<< a fucking idiot whos gonna pretend its okay and make it worse

 **From: _saruhiko_ (** **╬** **Ò** **‸** **Ó** **)  
** [12:59] I’m a professional. In your crude words, ‘shit happens’.”

Kusanagi glances over his shoulder and reads the texts; catching him, Yata scowls and jams the phone back in his pocket.

“I thought you and Fushimi weren’t on good terms?”

“We’re not. Clearly.” Yata takes his phone out again and waves it aggressively at Kusanagi, as if that were to do anything to prove his point. It vibrates in his hands.

 **From: _saruhiko_ (** **╬** **Ò** **‸** **Ó** **)  
** [13:01] And do you have to send texts in short sentence bursts? Can’t you type like a normal person?

Kusanagi raises an eyebrow, and Yata knows nothing is good when _that_ _smile_ threatens to pull at the corner of his lips. “Oh? But you’re worried about him, aren’t you, Yata-chan? And it certainly sounds like your old familiar banter, now.”

“Well, yeah.” He can feel the others in the room listening, and he fiddles with the black earring in his right ear, a nervous habit. “I mean, he was my best friend. Uh, still is? I guess.” It sounds unconvincing even to himself. “And he’s in a duet with me half the time, if he doesn’t take care of himself then it’ll fuck me up too, okay, guys?”

“We didn’t say anything, Yata.” Dewa has a strange look on his face when Yata turns to glare at him. Everyone is being damn _weird_.

Huffing, he crosses his arms and leans back. “Whatever. Saru’s just being a tryhard, as always.”

"Well, no need to be so angry about it, Yata-san," Kamamoto says. "Fushimi-san's pretty tough, isn't he? He can handle a bit of an ankle twist or whatever this is."

"No, but that's the problem," Yata says in frustration. "He _thinks_ he's hot shit, but he's really not, because he pushes himself too hard and then he like, breaks his fucking ankle or something." He gestures wildly towards the television. There’s no relevant footage, but Yata looks back to the other members in the room anyway.  "Like, you can't tell me he looks fine after he gets up, okay?"

Hidaka glances over at him and smiles, more to himself than to Yata. “Actually, we can, and we did.”

"Why don't you two just make up and kiss already?" Dewa's voice is bored as he turns his attention back to the broadcast. "It's obvious you still care about Fushimi, stop making excuses."

"I never said I didn't _care_ ," Yata points out, pointedly ignoring the first, sarcastic question. "It's not like it's a bad thing to care about a friend."

“Look, boys, he did it,” Dewa says sarcastically. “Yata finally admitted it. So this means you guys are gonna stop arguing and being awkward, right? Shit, dude, _I_ feel awkward watching the two of you. Go back to being, like, besties ‘n’ shit already, please.”

Everyone in the room turns to Yata, who looks offended. Among the room there are non-committal shrugs of agreement, as well as shy smiles that are otherwise in accord with Dewa’s statement. “We _are_ a team, Yata-san,” Kamo finally says, to break the awkward mood Dewa created. “The way you two interact affects us all as well, and all we want is for you two to sort things out so we can perform a cohesive and well-practiced concert.”

“Or, you know,” Akagi says, “resort to a fist fight already and just end any hope of friendship altogether. Duke it out. Fight, fight, fight!” He pumps his fist in the air to emphasize his point.

“It’s not like I _don’t_ want to be friends,” Yata responds without thinking.

(Kusanagi hides a cough behind his hand.)

The only response he gets is calculated silence from every single person in the room. “Agh, fuck this. I’m leaving. Everyone, shut the fuck up.”

“We didn’t say anything,” Akagi says with a cheeky grin.

“Then your brains should shut the fuck up. Jesus, why can’t anyone be straight with me?” Yata stomps out of the room in frustration, and takes out his phone again to respond to long-forgotten texts.

 **To: _saruhiko_ (** **╬** **Ò** **‸** **Ó** **)**  
[13:09] no like thats the point  
[13:10] shit happens but like u dont always have 2 just walk it off  
[13:10] its ok to be like  
[13:11] oh hey look im fushimi saruhiko but i fucked up and i kiiiiiiinda need medical assisatance?

 **From: _saruhiko_ (** **╬** **Ò** **‸** **Ó** **)  
** [13:11] But I don't need medical assistance.

 **To: _saruhiko_ (** **╬** **Ò** **‸** **Ó** **)**  
[13:12] AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGH  
[13:13] THIS IS WHAT IM FUCKIGN TALKING ABOUT

"Kusanagi-san," Yata shouts back into the room, not looking up from his phone and having already forgotten about given everyone in the lounge the silent treatment. "Can you call Saru's manager to tell him to sit his dumb ass down?"

"I'd think Seri-chan would already know by now to do that," Kusanagi responds quickly. There's something like amusement in his voice. "But anything for you, Yata-chan."

Yata purses his lips as Kusanagi takes out his phone and sends a few rapid-fire texts.

"He'll be fine, Yata-chan. You know that better than anyone." 

 

* * *

 

(Yata pretends he doesn't know at all why everyone is so amused at his adamant denial of caring for his friend. He pretends that their disagreement with each other is _incredibly serious_ and _life-changing_ and _absolutely irreversible_ , because it’s too embarrassing to think about being angry over nothing.)

 

* * *

 

Chitose, Eric, and Bandou return to HOMRA Ent. later that afternoon, tired and still clad in bright yellow raincoats.

"Welcome back," Akagi says happily. "You all smell like gross, sweaty wet dogs."

"If you bottle our sweat up and sell it, you'll probably still get fans jumping all over it," Chitose comments as the other two toss their raincoats on the floor and head off to the showers. “There’s probably a black market for this shit already,” he shouts down the hallway.

Akagi looks up at the doorway. "Where's 'Shimi?"

"Huh? Oh, he's at the ER to get stuffed checked out. _Overkill_ , if you ask me, which you clearly did, before you say anything." Bandou stretches and walks out of the room. "Don't interrupt our showers, _please._ "

Doumyouji scrunches up his nose. "I don't wanna see your dong anyway."

"You don't even live here, shut the fuck up." Eric interjects with a quick scathing remark before following the others.

Yata's reaction is belated, and he whips around to Kusanagi. "Wait, the ER?"

"Seri-chan answered. She said it wasn't an awful fall, but you can't take the chance if you rely so heavily on physical activity for your job, you know. I'd do the same for you if you slipped like he did, you know that."

Even before his manager finishes speaking, Yata’s brow is furrowed, thoroughly unconvinced.

 

* * *

 

It's become clear that Fushimi and Awashima wouldn't be returning to HOMRA Ent. later that night. Alphabet Boys files out of the lounge after pizza is delivered, and Yata is about to make his way back to the dorm when he receives a text message.

 ** _From:_** ** <unknown number>**  
Received: 18:24  
<attached image>

Normally, unknown numbers are never a good sign. He wonders belatedly if a fan managed to get their hands on his number, and—just to be sure—turns around to grab his manager again.

 _(“Really, Misaki. You should be more concerned with technological and internet security,” a younger Saruhiko grumbles as he modifies security settings on Misaki’s various devices. “Don’t just accept random attachments from unknown numbers.”_

_“But that’s what you’re for!” Misaki’s sitting on a brick wall, putting his chest at Saruhiko’s head level. Taking advantage of the height difference, he ruffles Saruhiko’s hair and gets a satisfying squawk out of the gangly pre-teen. “And besides, when we’re idols, you can still fix all these things for me, I know it.”_

_Saruhiko doesn’t correct him; he figures he’ll always be by Misaki’s side, anyway, and it’s not such a bad thing, being needed like this.)_

"Yo, Kusanagi-san," he starts, "got a text from an unknown number."

Looking quickly at his phone screen, Kusanagi cocks an eyebrow. "Huh. That's Seri-chan's number, it should be safe."

With confirmation, Yata downloads the image and opens it warily.

It's an image of Fushimi, looking like a petulant child on the clinic bed. His feet barely touch the ground, and he eyes the nurse with annoyance as she takes his blood pressure.

He receives another text; he quickly saves the number into his contacts before reading the messages.

 ** _From:_** **Awashima Seri**  
[18:32] Good evening, Yata.  
[18:33] Fushimi is fine, as you may be curious.  
[18:33] He simply needs an ankle brace and to not be pushed too hard for a day or so.  
[18:34] However, we will not be able to return to HOMRA Ent. tonight.  
[18:35] Regards.

"She types like an old lady." Yata frowns as he types a response.

 ** _To:_** **Awashima Seri**  
[18:37] thx  
[18:37] tell him he;s a dumbass

As an afterthought, he tries to sound more professional.

 ** _To:_** **Awashima Seri**  
[18:37] please  
[18:37] n dont tell him 2 come 2 practice tomorrow thanks you 

 

* * *

 

Yata is filled with an inexplicable sense of relief after Fushimi’s small accident, and for once he’s looking forward to the next time he’ll see the stubborn asshole.

It's a strange feeling; he's happy, but he feels guilty for being happy. _What kind of person is happy when their friend gets into an accident_ _?_ It makes sense to him on some level, too. Even without his constant presence in practices the next day, the ensemble receives updates from Awashima and they comment together on _our Fushimi-san, stubborn as always_.

Yata himself feels as though a dam had broken within him, too; everyone is joking about Fushimi, and he finds himself laughing and divulging Fushimi's old silly habits with everyone else.

"—he’d started to triple tie his shoes after that practice," Yata tells through laughs, "but then he'd only start tripping while trying to take off his shoes."

The group laughs with well-intentions, and Hidaka speaks up. "So, basically, 'Shimi ain't hot shit."

"Yeah, right?" Yata laughs, and his eyes light up. "Yeah, yeah, that's it exactly! He ain't hot shit! Hidaka, you're a fuckin' genius," he says, slapping the taller male on the back.

So, Yata is _happy_. Because Fushimi is fucking _human_ , albeit a human that is stubborn and pushes himself too hard and gets himself hurt. But it’s human all the same.

Suddenly, Yata sees it as this: Fushimi is snappy because he is hardworking. Fushimi is working hard and gets mad at everyone because they socialize too much and work too little, and he gets mad at Yata perhaps because Yata is too focused on trying to rekindle a friendship or maybe trying to figure out what the fuck his deal is, but Fushimi isn't a magician that can do it all in one go.

It’s not that likely that Fushimi actually hates him, he thinks. Maybe. Probably.

 

* * *

 

_(“But I learn everything faster than you, don’t you? And oh, they’ll have to rework everything because I bailed, and I’ll end up debuting before you, won’t I?” The look on Fushimi's face dares Yata to challenge him; he smirks, wide and cold and emotionless, and Yata's never been more scared of his friend than in this moment, because that look has never been turned on him before—)_

 

* * *

 

Maybe. Probably.

_I damn well fuckin’ hope so._

 

* * *

 

_(They're drenched from the pouring rain, underneath the concrete awning of their school building after hours, and Saruhiko pushes Misaki's bangs back from his forehead with gentle, slender fingers._

_“You look like an idiot. Isn’t the water getting in your eyes?"_

_Misaki laughs heartily, and with a wide grin, he responds—)_

 

* * *

 

Two days after the accident, Fushimi walks in confidently into their duet practice with an ankle brace and a crutch for good measure. Awashima hovers behind him, eyeing the crutch intensely and making disapproving noises at Fushimi’s disapproving noises. “Isn’t this overkill, Awashima-san? It’s just an ankle sprain.”

“A sprain in a job that requires you to be constantly moving,” she insists, “and you should be glad I’m merciful enough to allow you to come to practice.”

Fushimi looks as though he wants to drop down into the chair, but sighs and decides to sit down gently instead. Yata bites back a smile at the show of stubbornness. “Oi, Saru, shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I am resting,” Fushimi insists, gesturing towards the chair.

“But you still had to walk here.”

“Mind you, with a crutch.” He says the last word with disdain, as if it had personally offended him and everything he cared about.

“So what, you’re just gonna watch me today? Pick me apart? Tell me all the steps I’m doing wrong?” Yata makes fun of himself, but it feels more lighthearted, and he finds he doesn’t quite believe it anymore.

Fushimi sticks a smirk on his face. “Put on a nice show, Misaki.”

“Nasty ass.” Yata shoots the grin right back at him, and it feels like their old bickering again.

Fushimi's grin teases rather than mocks, and Yata feels as though a small gear of their once well-working duet machinery is working well, once again.

It's a start.

  

* * *

 

When the ankle brace comes off, Yata kicks playfully at Fushimi's shin.

"You ain't hot shit, you know."

"Keep telling yourself whatever you need to to make yourself feel better, Misaki." Despite the harsh-sounding words, Fushimi presses his back against Yata's, and they begin their duet practice, once again two halves of a shaky whole. It's a complete 180 from the last time they interacted, but Yata's had time to think now, and he's going to give this whole reconciliation thing another shot maybe. So he battles down the voice nagging at him that  _Saruhiko never liked you, ever,_ and he bumps against Fushimi's back and laughs when the taller boy stumbles.

"Yeah, yeah, talk it up, Saru, you fuckin' big boy. I'd say it's good to have your shitty ass back, but you're still an asshole." 

 

* * *

 

(Fushimi feels Yata against him, warm with heavy, broad shoulders, and he smiles to himself for a brief second.)

_Good to be back, Misaki._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> early chapter bc i have a football game to play for tomorrow  
> (i'm in marching band) (i don't understand what sports are)
> 
> it's almost impossible to find full versions of tokyo 7th sisters songs anywhere, i'm trying so hard  
> [hello... my friend](http://www.nicovideo.jp/watch/sm27147879) (cover by たっぷ) / [lyrics](http://eshtarwind.tumblr.com/post/135486600674/4u-hellomy-friend-translations-and-lyrics)
> 
> thank you everyone for the comments and kudos so far, btw! ;_; i love you all so much, thank you for supporting my child ;_;


	6. Shooting Stars

APRIL 2013

It’s not until the beginning of April that Fushimi and Yata have the rough choreography down for their duet cover. The next practice after that, Fushimi is introduced to high heels.

Yata cackles. It’s like their first practice, where he was the one that kept stumbling, but now _Fushimi_ gets a taste of his own medicine.

“I really have to wear these?” Fushimi mumbles to the choreographer, eyes the shoes distastefully.

“Only because I think you can do it. I made sure not to go with ones that were too tall.”

He snatches the shoes out of the choreographer’s hands and slumps in a chair to put them on. Yata walks up to him, taunting him about the pain and the suffering and the embarrassment he’s bound to go through in heels, when Fushimi finishes putting them on and stands up.

He glares coldly down at Yata, who immediately thinks _shit, he’s tall._ Fushimi was always tall to begin with, but the combination of how close they are and how much the heels add to his height makes Yata feel like a cornered animal. But it’s Fushimi doing the cornering, so it’s somewhat like a rather angry bunny biting at his ankles.

Yata pauses for a second. _The fuck kind of analogy was that?_

Fushimi tries to push him away so he can walk towards the choreographer but ends up collapsing instead, holding onto Yata as support. Unable to help himself, the shorter of the pair barks out a laugh. Fushimi’s breath is warm in his ear and his legs are shaking, and his fingers are digging deep into his shoulders, and the click of his tongue in annoyance is accompanied with the warm flush up his face.

“Can’t run away from practice this time, Saru! Up y’go,” Yata grunts, pushing Fushimi up on his feet. He’s got his arms around Fushimi’s waist because he’s _still shaking_ and has the death grip on Yata’s shoulders. The scowl on his face deepens and Yata thinks immediately _this is kinda nice._

He squashes that thought almost as quickly as it comes to mind.

Fushimi applies pressure to Yata’s shoulders, who takes that as his cue to step back. “You gonna be alright?”

“Shut up.” All of Fushimi’s former grace has been stripped from him as he sticks his arms out to his side, trying to keep his balance. He waddles to the where the choreographer is standing, Yata walking alongside him—which ends up being a good idea, because Fushimi ends up stumbling a few more times anyway.

Fushimi _waddles_. Dear god, Yata’ll hold onto this memory forever. 

Yata's amusement is inversely proportional to Fushimi's frustration, and then the choreographer comments. “Fushimi-san, it seems like we need to practice you walking in heels, first. Should I make you run laps around the room?”

There's an immediate spike of worry. “What if he sprains his ankle _again_?” 

“Misaki, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Sure, he sprained his ankle that one time. But Fushimi's had the history of pushing himself and not asking for help, so Yata doesn't feel bad about worrying for him. “I practically walked you over here, you hadn’t even let go of me once! You’re not running.”

“Ah, Yata-san, I didn’t actually mean Fushimi-san should run. But walking around the room might help.” The choreographer gives him a pat on the shoulder. “This is the last practice of the night, right boys? I can let you go so Fushimi-san can practice. I don’t think we’ll be able to do choreography at this rate.”

Fushimi sets his jaw. “I can still—”

“I insist.” The choreographer’s smile is still easy as he continues. “I’d rather you be able to walk first to prevent any sort of injury. Yata-san, is that okay with you?”

Nodding enthusiastically, Yata agrees. “Yeah, yeah, we can’t have Saru dying before we even do the mini-album.”

The choreographer shrugs his jacket back on and bows at the door, leaving the two of them alone in the practice room. “Good luck, Fushimi-san.”

The odds feel stacked against him; _pain in the ass. They’re just footwear. It shouldn’t change my knowledge of the dance._ “Misaki. Run through the choreography with me.” Fushimi can tell his insistence brings the look of concern onto Yata’s face, which makes him even more determined to see this through.

“You can barely walk in them, at least start with _walking_.”

“Waste of time. Stop worrying about it.” Fushimi walks off to the corner where the stereo is and he falls this time instead of simply stumbling. He catches himself when he falls, but the practice room floor is still hard on his knees and his palms start to sting.

He hears the scuff of shoes across the floor and then Yata squats in front of him. “C’mon, man. Let’s at least walk this through.”

Fushimi bites the inside of his cheek, refusing to make eye contact. Yata sighs and he shifts himself so he’s sitting in a more comfortable position. “We ain’t got practice after this. I can wait _all_ night. I dorm at HOMRA Entertainment, I really _can_ wait all night.”

“You’re so annoying,” Fushimi mumbles.

“That’s the spirit!” Yata sticks out his hands and Fushimi grabs onto them, letting the other pull him up into a standing position.

 

* * *

 

Fushimi is completely focused on making his steps absolutely steady as he walks around the room. It leaves no room for conversation, and so the flow of time is as easy as it is during normal practices.

 _This is actually less physical contact than usual_ , Yata thinks. Fushimi starts off needing to have one hand on Yata’s shoulder to steady himself, Yata having an arm against the small of his back, and the amount of contact he needs to keep himself steady slowly decreases.

“Misaki, let me walk this alone already.” The frown on Fushimi’s face deepens and he chews his lip in concentration.

This time, Yata lets him go. He sits off in a chair to the side, watching Fushimi prepare himself mentally. Everything about him is all contrasts and sharp edges—his messy hair across his pale features, practice clothes in shades of black and white, and the black heels strapped to his feet.

With a deep breath, Fushimi starts moving forward, trying to keep his posture upright without losing his balance, and when he gets to the end of the room he does a turn that is almost flawless, if not for the small stumble.

Yata lets out a laugh and Fushimi levels a glare at him. “No, no, it was good, it was just—” The clumsiness combined with _Fushimi_ is something unexpected, but not entirely unwanted.

“Just _what_ , Misaki?”

“Entertaining. You gotta make it back to clear this, so hurry up!”

When Fushimi picks up his speed, he almost regains some of his grace. He speedwalks to the back wall before groaning, making a beeline to the chair next to where Yata is sitting.

“Hey, Saruhiko, you did well,” he says as Fushimi starts to rip the shoes off his feet. “When you go faster, you actually end up getting better. Maybe you _should_ be running laps.”

“What happened to not wanting me to be hurt?” Fushimi points at the red across his feet, marks where the heels had dug in.

“You can’t run laps anyway, you slowpoke,” Yata says. He bumps their shoulders together and laughs when Fushimi briefly loses his balance.

He retaliates by smacking Yata with the heel. “I _exercise,_ Misaki, it’s part of the idol life. Stamina.”

“Race you to the vending machines?”

“Absolutely not.” Fushimi wiggles his toes, as if to imply he were tired, before he pushes off the seat and sprints to the door. Yata’s mouth curls into a wide grin and he follows shortly behind. “You fuckin’ cheater!”

“You’re too slow, Misaki!” Fushimi holds the door closed from the other side and grins at him through the glass window.

“You never got faster, you just cheated _better!”_ Yata bursts through the door.

They fill the hallway with their laughter.

 

* * *

 

It’s not like Yata _meant_ to write about Saruhiko. Maybe. It’s not really writing _about_ Saruhiko as it is being written _to_ Saruhiko: _Saruhiko, Saruhiko, wherefore art thou asshole?_

But when your best friend shows up back in your life as your rival, while also being in high heels and eventually a skimpy dress, who also seems to show no sign of whatever the fuck mood swing caused him to tell Yata off in the first place, it gets complicated. 

It’s really, _really_ complicated. His fingers fly across the frets with different song ideas, all sounding as wrong as the one before it. He still wants to punch Saruhiko in the face. That’s definitely a thing. But.

It’s a bit weird, overall. Fushimi in heels makes him more prone to irritation, but instead of pushing Yata away it brings him closer. He knows how to act around Fushimi when he’s annoyed, because it’s his default state of being. He  _doesn’t_ know how to act around him when Fushimi is distant and ignoring him and _fucking left him to go join the rival company—_

He inhales sharply through his teeth, playing a dissonant chord.

But, the heels aren't a bad idea. With the heels, Yata watches as Fushimi stumbles and pushes himself even harder just to be able to do something as simple as _walking_ , and Fushimi seems a bit more human now.

(And.)

(Saruhiko’s always had nice legs.)

 

* * *

 

See, then, sometimes, _but only a little bit—don’t get the wrong idea, mind you—hell, ‘sometimes’ is a bit of an exaggeration. It’s more like occasionally. Rarely—_ Yata kind of, maybe, might stare in his eyes for too long during the practices, and before he knows it, he gets pulled in by icy blue.

A million times. A million times he must have looked at Saruhiko. But lately, it’s like Yata forgets the colour until they make eye contact again and all of a sudden Yata drowns in memories and maybe-promises and half-moments and the salty smell of the sea.

Saruhiko blinks. The moment ends. Saruhiko is frowning.

 

* * *

 

Awashima comes in to watch some of their practices sometimes, and she walks in with heels of her own. “Awashima-san, how do you even like doing this?” Fushimi gestures towards his heels in exasperation.

“It’s professional. And Fushimi, your legs look very nice.”

“Shut up.” He’s wearing baggy sweatpants for practice, and it annoys him that she bothers to comment on his legs in the first place.

“What was that?”

“You’ve got a sadistic streak, Awashima-san.”

Their managers have been coming in and out of the practices this month since Fushimi started wearing heels. While the new audience members make Yata nervous, he’s grown used to Kusanagi’s amusement and Awashima’s watching eye, mainly focused on the other.

On a day towards the end of April, when everyone is in the HOMRA Ent. building, Anna comes in, holding Totsuka’s hand and dragging him into Yata and Fushimi’s practice. Anna only has a few short appearances in the concert; she doesn’t work as closely with them, busy with her own schedule.

Fushimi’s slipping the heels on in the back corner when he stops, dead in his tracks. “Anna? Why are you here?”

Yata whips around to the doorway at the mention of Anna’s name. “Totsuka-san, okay, but _Anna_?”

“Misaki, Saruhiko, this was _my_ idea.” Anna stands dead centre in front of the mirror, fixing them with her cool stare. “I want to see two good friends stop arguing already, especially two who were kind to me in the past.”

Yata bites the inside of his cheek. Anna, under a male-dominated record label, had made her debut just three weeks after Yata and Fushimi had arrived, and had worked twice as hard to prove herself among the trainees. Most people eventually went from competitiveness to cheering her on, becoming fiercely protective of the youngest among their ranks; and really, Fushimi and Yata were no exception, as much as the former would deny.

The click of Fushimi’s heels across the floor breaks Yata out of his hesitation. “Damnit, Anna, I’m not even used to these things yet.” It’s not a rejection of the idea, unfortunately.

“Heels are alright. Practice, Saruhiko—heel, toe, heel, toe.”

He hears Fushimi curse under his breath when he tries walking as Anna instructed; his moves become a little more fluid. His walking takes on some sort of grace, now. “Whatever.”

“Anna’s got good advice, y’know. You don’t look like you’re two seconds from falling over now.” Yata makes a jab at him to ease his own tension.

“Your legs look nice, Saruhiko.”

“Everyone needs to stop saying that. Anna, I don’t want to hear that from you.” Fushimi takes his place regardless, back facing the mirror and their audience.

And god, their audience. Kusanagi? Alright. Awashima? Acceptable. But Totsuka isn’t even _their_ manager, and Anna’s somehow managed to bring herself along. Yata suddenly feels a fresh wave of embarrassment as he remembers how _his_ hands are supposed to roam all over Fushimi, and he groans, dropping down to the floor in humiliation. “Anna, I don’t want you to watch this, you’re too young.”

“Misaki, I’m seventeen.”

“ _Too young_ , Totsuka-san, cover her eyes.”

“Suck it up, Misaki, how’re you gonna perform if you can’t even do it for Totsuka-san?” There’s something familiar in Fushimi’s tone, like they had their own little inside joke that Yata might have completely forgotten about. It makes him want to rise to the challenge and so he stands up, ready to argue back, when he catches Fushimi’s pose.

He looks as bored as always, but he’s got a hand on his hips and leaning slightly on one leg, and Yata thinks that heels might just be a good fit for Fushimi, in the most hilarious way. “Oi, what’re you lookin’ like a diva for, Saru?”

Fushimi clicks his tongue and smirks. “You gonna keep a lady waiting?”

“You—” The response throws Yata off completely. “Just because you’re wearing heels—”

“I’m talking about Anna, you idiot.”

Anna lets out a small puff of air through her nose.

When the music starts, Yata goes through the actions mechanically, feeling his face burn up—Anna’s gaze has always been able to look _right through you_ , somehow sharp and kind at the same time. He can feel Fushimi sing, his low voice thrumming through his body where Yata is touching him, and it makes him jittery.

The end of the dance has them walking towards each other slowly, and Yata isn’t still fully used to the intensity of the gaze that Fushimi directs towards him, every time. His body makes the motions automatically, but he squeezes his eyes shut and leans away when Fushimi tilts his chin up and leans in, not quite touching.

His fingers are feather-light ( _as they’ve always been_ , he thinks) and his breath fans warmly over Yata’s face. They hold the position for a few seconds before Fushimi sighs and pulls away. “Misaki, you look constipated.”

“I can’t help it if I can’t get your shit out of my life!”

Totsuka claps over the bickering. “Whoa, Fushimi-kun is so handsome! And Yata-kun, it wasn’t so bad, was it? Amethyst Forge is done practicing; they can’t wait to see!”

“The _who_ now?” Yata’s voice squeaks an octave higher and Fushimi groans, resting his head against the closest wall.

“They need to watch it so they can be prepared for it when the concert comes. It’s only fair!” Again, Totsuka makes a good point, but neither Fushimi or Yata are willing to agree.

Yata’s protests are in vain; Amethyst Forge comes pouring into the practice room with their food, having just finished their own practice for the time being. They all sit in front of the mirror facing the inside of the room, and Totsuka and Anna take a seat on the floor this time to join them.

“Nice heels, Fushimi-san!” Hidaka yells. Fushimi grinds his heel across the floor with a look that says something violent, something along the lines of _I will grind your balls underneath my heels if you say anything else_.

Bandou shoves food in Hidaka’s mouth. “Oi—”

“You know Fushimi’s got killer aim, I don’t trust him with heels."

Their new audience fills the room with energy, chattering in amusement. Yata takes his place and is _really_ regretting the fact that he has to face everyone first. When Fushimi presses his back against his, someone in the crowd whistles.

The familiar tune starts playing from the stereo in the corner again. They start.

Fushimi’s performance is flawless— _fuck_ , he hammed it up. Yata should have expected this. It’s _Saruhiko_. Whatever progress Yata’s made in three months goes out the window as he stumbles and forgets the words because Fushimi is more serious than he’s ever been in practices, putting all his energy in maintaining his stage personality for those four minutes.

He and Fushimi twirl around each other, an embarrassingly intimate dance bringing past each other’s comfort zones (and then some). Whenever they make eye contact with each other—almost constantly—Yata feels the urge to crumble under his gaze, sharp as steel through long eyelashes.

Yata accidentally sings the same verse twice.

He gets through it and Fushimi _more_ than gets through it and everyone is cheering and yelling, even though they don’t do the kiss at the end. Some of them boo because of the lack of the kiss, but it’s all in good fun.

They hold the final position for a bit until Fushimi deliberately blows air on Yata’s lips. The reaction is instant; he pushes the taller male away from and stumbles back. Fushimi loses his balance on the heels and ends up flat on his back.

Yata panics for a second. He was _there_ whenever Fushimi would complain about how much pain the heels would cause him, and pushing him over probably didn’t help in the slightest. And he looks healthier, but doesn’t he bruise kind of easily? Concern is written all over his face when he takes a step towards his former duet partner.

He stops. Fushimi, back facing everyone else, hides a laugh behind his hand that only Yata can see. It holds none of the malicious intent he would expect it to, as if it were laughing for the sake of enjoyment. The moment lasts for a millisecond, because he fixes the look back on his face to turn towards Totsuka, Anna, and the rest of Amethyst Forge. “Are we done here?”

(It’s not like Yata _wants_ to write about Saruhiko. But Yata thinks, _you’re allowed to be happy, you fucking moron_ , and then over time, it turns into _wishing for things isn’t inherently selfish_. Fancy words, but Yata thinks it fits his song for once.)

“Yeah! Give yourselves an early lunch.” Totsuka looks way too satisfied. Eric starts a whole new round of cheering among the subunit and Fushimi’s frown deepens.

“Saruhiko,” Anna’s voice breaks through the ruckus and rings clear in Fushimi and Yata’s ears. The former narrows his eyes at her, and she takes it as the cue to continue. “Don’t frown. You look nicer when you smile.”

Without a response, Fushimi walks out of the room. Yata watches him go until the rest of Amethyst Forge drag back his attention.

 

* * *

 

Fushimi needs somewhere to kill time for about fifteen minutes to make sure everyone clears out of the practice room. He’s estimating it’ll be closer to five, since Totsuka announced early lunch shortly before Fushimi himself left, and he’s hoping everyone assumes he’s gone down to lunch already.

The bathroom is well lit, so he takes the farthest possible stall from the door and sits hesitantly on the seat. It’s alright, for a temporary hideout. Fushimi is disgusting from dance practices all morning, anyway, and he always takes long showers, and he doesn’t re-wear anything after a day. It’s fine. It’s alright. It’s okay.

When he reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants to take his PDA out, he discovers they’ve made the toilets auto-flushing. He tries to look as dignified as he can when he stands up in terror; it’s only been about four minutes since he left, and so he still has eleven minutes to wait.

“Irritating piece of shit.” Fushimi kicks at the toilet bowl again.

The bowl flushes back at him in response, triggered by the movement in front of the sensor.

There’s nothing much to do while waiting for time to pass without drawing attention to himself via automatic flushing toilet. He scrolls down technology forums and reads news and waits, and when the time on his phone goes from _12:52pm_ to _1:07pm_ , he promptly exits the stall, because Fushimi Saruhiko is not late to his own plans.

Anna is standing right next to the exit of the men’s bathroom. “Saruhiko, you didn’t wash your hands.”

“All I did was stand in here.”

“Regardless, bathrooms are dirty. We’re still waiting for you back at the practice room.”

“And I care why?” Fushimi taps his foot in annoyance, staring down his nose at Anna.

She doesn’t recoil under his gaze at all. “We’d like to eat.”

“Then go eat.”

“Not yet. Come eat with us, Saruhiko.” Not like Anna gives him a choice. She grabs his hand, despite her previous complaining about uncleanliness, and he lets himself get dragged back to the practice room.

Everyone is, as Anna said, still inside. They’ve all gathered in a sitting mess towards the door, and he watches Yata laugh and joke around with the others. His smile is too bright, and Fushimi immediately feels his brows furrow.

It’s only been fifteen minutes, _fifteen minutes_ from an intimate dance and a near-kiss, and Yata’s already managed to brush it off as if it meant absolutely nothing at all. _Are your whims so transient as to allow any common idiot to be by your side now, Misaki?_

He taps his foot in annoyance. This undoes all of the work he’s put into the song lyrics, too, all because Yata isn’t paying enough attention. _Always causing trouble. You’re more trouble than it’s worth._

He and Anna are silent presences, so it takes a little bit longer for people to realize they’ve come back. “Oi, Saru, you finally came back!” The smile Yata directs at him is the same he had directed to everyone in the room before their presence was noticed.

“Forcibly,” he says, holding up the wrist Anna has her hand around.

And with everyone’s attention turned to him, something clicks. “But I would have come willingly if it was you holding me, Misaki.” He lets the lopsided grin fall on his face and watches as Yata’s face starts to redden.

“What the _fuck_ , Saru? Stop being so goddamn creepy!” (someone whistles for Yata, and for once, it’s the reaction Fushimi is looking for.)

He pushes it further, needs to gather more information. “Kind of a strange thing to say to someone you almost kissed, huh?”

Yata buries his face in his hands as everyone else starts laughing. He shoots up and starts walking towards the door. “I’m going, I’m hungry, I’m done,” he says, storming away. “I don’t get why I have to work with you, Saru, who fucking thought this was a great idea?”

The rest of them follow the shorter boy (still muttering expletives under his breath), making kissy noises at Fushimi, and then the practice room is empty again.

“Maybe,” Anna advises, “you should change your strategies.”

“You’re too vague for me to understand you, Anna,” Fushimi lies through his teeth.

 

* * *

 

At the end of the day, while Kusanagi is driving them back to HOMRA Ent., Yata rereads Totsuka’s blog post on their predebut photos, and—despite knowing it probably isn’t the best idea—he scrolls down to the comments. It’s always been a bad habit of his, actively seeking out negative comments about him, and it’s only gotten worse since Totsuka posted the photos.

Today’s flavour of insult is _Wow, even when Fushimi-san was so young, his poses were so beautiful!! Yata-san’s are very messy ww were they really scouted at the same time?_ As always, there is a bitter taste in his mouth from being compared to his former duet partner. “Hey, Kusanagi-san.”

 “Yeah?” Kusanagi spares a glance at him before turning his eyes towards the road.

He tries to form words for a few seconds, but his tongue feels heavy and he stops trying to roll the taste around his mouth further. “Never mind, it’s dumb.”

“Get all the tension out before it gets too serious and interferes with the concerts.” Kusanagi gives him an opening, and so he takes it.

“…Why did you bother putting me and Saruhiko as a duet for this concert if we don’t even work well together?” He doesn’t _quite_ ask the question he wants to, but the answer he’ll get works as an answer for both. And really, it’s something he’s been thinking about almost constantly. Yata frames it as a joke most of the time in the hopes of getting a straight answer, but he never expects it.

At a red light, Kusanagi looks past Yata and recognizes the colour scheme of Totsuka’s blog on his phone. “Was this because of the old pictures Totsuka put up?”

Right on the money. “It’s not a lot, but… people talk about Saruhiko being better than me ‘even back then’.”

“Maybe back then,” Kusanagi says honestly. Yata can appreciate that. “But you put in a lot of hard work yourself, don’t forget that. And it’s unfair to compare you both now, because y’all’ve gone off in different directions.

“But at this point in time? You can stand your own against Fushimi-kun, absolutely. You beat him in some aspects, he beats you in others.” Kusanagi leans his right elbow on the window next to him and thinks for a few more seconds.

It’s not until the light turns green again when he finally finishes his thought. “Take it as you will, but you two fit better now than you did when y’all were in the same company. Even through your constant bickering and arbitrary competitions, you complement each other, now.”

His manager’s voice is full of thinly-masked fondness, not even hiding the fact that he’s doting on the aggressive pair. Yata rests his head on the car window, leaving his phone open to the pictures of him and Fushimi until the screen turns black.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Fushimi takes out the page of mostly-finished sentences and writes _concert only_ at the very top. He flips the page over, titles it with _rehearsals_ , and rewrites the opening sentences from the other side.

It’s a theory: the more people witness anything he does, the bigger the impact.

It’s like Misaki’s gotten bigger, more popular, and even stupider since they last met; he shines brighter. He blinds himself more. He _still_ , for some damn reason, can’t figure out why Fushimi left. _Betrayal_ this, _broken promises_ that, _how about when we were on the bridge, huh?_

 _Well, what about it?_ Fushimi finds his brow scrunching in frustration and lets out a long sigh.

And for all his inane preaching about being in a group and camaraderie and all that, he’s _still_ a solo performer.

Misaki’s alone, for some reason. “Alone”, of course, meaning he’s in front of thousands of fans entranced by him on stage, with his attention is fixed solely on the audience. There is no room to look beside him anymore, at Fushimi’s former and current rightful place.

And Fushimi plans to take what is his, of course; desperate times call for desperate measures, but Fushimi is nowhere _near_ desperate. That would be a stupid assumption. It’s only a saying, after all.

There’s no way he’ll waste a chance as dramatic as this: thousands of people watching, waiting, expecting. All eyes on him. Misaki’s eyes on him.

But oh, no, he’s not just going to feed this to Misaki so easily. Misaki has missed that chance. Misaki can’t get it again. Things have to scale properly. If Misaki’s audience has ten thousand people, Fushimi needs to have the impact of ten thousand and one, at the very least.

With a renewed vigor, Fushimi picks up a pen and starts. There are half-formed sentences all over the page, ideas inextricably linked, words scratched out, again and again. Bolder. More forward. More aggressive. _Good._  

The page is no more than a tangle of lines and seemingly disconnected words. But Fushimi takes a deep breath, picks up his bass, and begins to play.

 

* * *

 

(And, later that night, Yata returns to his dorm to shower and sleep; tomorrow is a break from the dual-company practices, which means he doesn’t have to wake up as early.

Kusanagi watches the guitar slung over his shoulder when he disappears into his room, bouncing against his back when the door closes. He’s seen Fushimi around with the bass too, both of them stepping into the composer’s room with their respective instruments, and he recalls the other old videos sitting on Totsuka’s computer.)

_SEPTEMBER 2010_

_“Yata-kun!”_

_“Eh, Totsuka-san? What’s with the camera at this time?” Misaki turns around from where he’s walking across the bridge, guitar on his back turning with him a second later. Saruhiko is ahead of them, face unreadable as he leans over the railings and stares at the wide blue sea. Kusanagi stands next to him, but he looks over his shoulder at the camera._

_His voice picks up faintly from where he’s standing. “Oi, Totsuka, don’t you have classes?”_

_“Done for the day,” the voice rings cheerily from behind the camera, still walking towards the rest of the group. Misaki falls out of frame and falls into step next to him. “And don’t you think I need field experience? These are like extended classes!”_

_“Get your homework done.” Kusanagi walks up to him and smacks him on the head. “We don’t want you out of the business before you’re even done studying business.”_

_Saruhiko doesn’t look at the camera once Totsuka is next to him, but he makes no attempt to hide himself either. “Isn’t this some sort of breach of idol privacy, Totsuka-san?”_

_“Maybe.” Totsuka’s laugh is easy, and he pans the camera out to what Saruhiko’s looking at. The quality isn’t great, but the colours retain their nostalgic feel. “So Yata-kun is learning guitar?”_

_Saruhiko lets out a small laugh at that, and it sparkles like the sea ahead. “He keeps talking about some punk rock image he wants to try, and Kusanagi-san just says it’ll be useful in the future.”_

_“Is that what your bass is for?” The bass is never seen in frame, hidden behind Saruhiko instead of carried on his back. Totsuka keeps the camera focused on the sea in front of them._

_“We’ll be more complete if I play backup.”_

_“Isn’t that so? You two are a hell of a duo. You’ll blow everyone out of the water, no matter what you do.”_

_There are a few more seconds of the sea, crashing waves nearly drowning out Saruhiko's humming, and then the video ends._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [shooting stars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KvIwXd8MKXo) / [lyrics](http://www.project-imas.com/wiki/Shooting_Stars)
> 
> if it isn't already obvious, i take more from my kpop history & wake up, girls! than my anime idols, even if hold the latter much closer to my heart; it feels a little less campy this way. also, more idol k material came out recently i think? and i think it's a bit sillier, so i can be extra af with this fic and yall can still go off and enjoy some idol k fluff afterwards
> 
> updates may start being a few days late and whatnot; i'm back in school, and that's my priority. ;_;  
> for all of you also starting school, hang in there!


	7. Homemade, Handmade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried

MAY 2013

The bi-weekly meeting starts with Munakata immediately taking the stand for the first announcement. Everyone collectively freezes, chatter dying down almost immediately.

“Good morning, everyone.” Unperturbed by everyone’s discomfort, the President of Scepter 4 carries on. “We have officially been a strong unit for almost four months now, and I think it is appropriate to announce your ensemble name now.”

Everyone braces themselves for impact.

“Amethyst Forge, Lilac Bloom. OXIDIZE and Alphabet Boys. Fushimi-kun and Yata-kun. Welcome to Kingdom Come.”

The room lets out a collective sigh. Considering Munakata’s track record, it could have been a lot worse. It’s regal sounding, and there’s a sense of pride behind it. Something they wouldn’t mind being called in the media or by fans, something they don’t have to train themselves not to cringe at instinctively.

At least, until Benzai speaks up. “Munakata-san?”

“Yes, Benzai-kun?”

Benzai almost looks as if he doesn’t want to say what he’s been thinking, but it’s too late to back out with everyone in the room looking at him. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven…bound.”

Indeed, Suoh is standing off to the side of the stage, watching all of this unfold nonchalantly. Munakata has a glint in his eye again. “Excellent detective work, Benzai-kun.”

Several members of the newly-christened Kingdom Come bury their face in their hands.

 

* * *

 

The planned mid-to-late-year EP release is approaching; practices become more concentrated as groups of members of Kingdom Come are pulled out of practice for recording and more strenuous vocal practices.

Some finish recording faster than others; their entertainment has then become Yata and Fushimi’s practices, because apparently witnessing that _one_ practice that _one_ time means a free pass to every other one of their practices.

“Don’t you all have jobs?” Fushimi asks, tapping a sneaker impatiently against the ground. It’s not even a high-heels day, for god’s sake.

“It’s good practice to be constantly under the public eye.” Kamo says one day, sitting in with Enomoto.

Fushimi doesn’t bother hiding his sentiment, and he grumbles loud enough for the two of them to hear. “Yeah, but it’s still annoying to have you all in here.”

Their managers are usually there when they can be; one day, just like the very first audience practice, Anna is the one leading them in. “Both of you have been asked to appear on _Achtung! Kitchen_ ,” Kusanagi announces, waving his phone around as if that were supposed to emphasize his point. “Both Seri-chan and I were called within the past few days, and we accepted.”

“Huh? Isn’t that the weird cooking one? The one that Anna’s a huge fan of?” Yata’s lying on the ground still trying to catch his breath. Fushimi sits up next to him. It’s not that Yata hates cooking. Quite the opposite, really, but given the other guest he’s going with…

Kusanagi confirms his fears. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

“And you want me and _Saru_ to go together?” Yata points accusingly to Fushimi, who flicks his hand away. “Anna, we’ll ruin the show for you forever. We’ll ruin the show for _anyone_ forever, becase Saru’ll burn the set down.”

Her voice is quiet but firm. “Misaki and Saruhiko have a good energy for the show. The competitions will be much more entertaining if both of you are present.”

“For better or for worse, she’s right,” Awashima admits. “I’ve been convinced to trust both of you to not destroy the set or turn to a fistfight. Don’t betray that.”

Fushimi’s question comes out in one breath, like an extra-annoyed sigh. “When’s recording?”

“Four days from now. It’ll air about two weeks after.”

 

* * *

 

“No, Kusanagi-san, you really don’t understand, I don’t think Saruhiko should be on this show.” Yata steps out of the dressing room, adjusting his chef’s hat. “I know you said ‘no destruction of the set’, but he _cannot_ cook.”

“That’s the fun of the show,” his manager responds. “The staff have been informed of Fushimi’s… kitchen troubles as well; you were both walked through the rough script, you know you’re only making curry.”

“Saruhiko has never even made a curry in his life.”

“Yeah, we know, the staff backstage gave him a recipe to follow too just in case. It’s one of his ‘charm points’ or something, that a cool guy like him still needs help cooking his meals.”

“Tch, it’s not _that_ charming when he’s a picky little bastard,” Yata grumbles right as Fushimi steps out of the dressing room. He scowls at the sight of Yata and Kusanagi.

“This hat is a nuisance,” he mumbles sourly, pushing past the two of them. “Don’t be late. I don’t want this pain in the ass job to go on any longer than it has to.”

As a contrast to his exasperated words, Fushimi’s chef hat sticks up completely straight almost to the point of ridiculousness as he drags himself to set. Kusanagi—in all his managerial wisdom—comments, “They might have a point about the subversion cool image.”

Yata snorts and walks on set. _Charming, my ass._

The stage lights go at full blast when the opening jingle plays. The usual fanfare takes place; blaring music, fluctuating stage lights, and enthusiastic cheers and applause from the audience has Yata straightening his back in anticipation. When all is said and done, the host makes a beeline to the first, unenthusiastic-looking contestant. “What’s your cooking background like, Fushimi-kun?”

“Simple things.”

“Because?”

“I waste time otherwise.”

“So you only cook simple, fast foods because you don’t know how to cook anything else?” The host leans in closer, a smug smile on his face.

Fushimi clicks his tongue in response. “Is this line of questioning going anywhere useful?”

“That’s kind of an unexpected charm point for Fushimi-kun! I’m sure some of you in the audience wouldn’t mind cooking for him, right?”

The response is deafening as the host moves over to Yata. “It would be a shame if you were the same; are you, Yata-kun?”

“Nah, I love cooking!” Yata grins widely. “It’s kinda fun to be on a show like this, even if Saru might end up burning it down.”

“ _Oh_ ,” the host croons, “so while Fushimi-kun can’t cook, you can?”

“Yeah, since I was old enough to be able to help my mom out in the restaurant, it’s just been a thing of mine.” Yata realizes he must have let himself sound more sentimental than he thought, because the audience reacts with _aww_ s.

“A participant that can cook well, and one that can’t cook at all! Wouldn’t it be nice if you’d cook for Fushimi-kun, then?”

The audience hoots, and Yata only looks confused. “What? No, never again, he’s too goddamn picky with his food.” Fushimi, off camera, buries his head in his hands and drags them down his face; Yata catches the action out of the corner of his eye and grows even more bewildered. The crowd cheers again.

They take their places behind their cooking stations, and the host speaks again. “Now normally, our recipes aren’t this tame. But we’ve been warned about Fushimi-kun,” and the audience laughs as the screen depicts a silly clipart explosion, “so we’re going with something traditional.”

The word _curry rice_ flashes across the screen and the audience cheers.

“Something to remind Yata-kun of home, and something simple for Fushimi-kun to start with! But we won’t be using instant curry roux, of course; that’d be too easy.

“Really, we’re not here to make things easy, are we?” At his words, the curtain behind him begins to open; a seemingly random variety of objects and food litter a long (but not so wide) rectangular table.

They know this is coming, of course. They’ve been debriefed. Both contestants will be blindfolded. Both contestants will search the table with their other senses to acquire not only the proper ingredients, but the cooking tools. Rice and knives remain at their workstations, for obvious reasons. Fushimi has had time to observe the ingredients list well before; although never having cooked in his life before, he should, _in theory_ , be able to recognize what he needs.

 _Saru’s a smart guy,_ Yata thinks unconvincingly. _He could probably do this._

The host, finishing his explanations, brings Yata and Fushimi to their places—on the same end of the long table, across each other width-wise. They are blindfolded and moved to their starting positions. Yata places his hands on the table, trying to get a feel of the table underneath, and his fingers brush over Fushimi’s.

He’s sure he’ll win over Fushimi, but letting his guard down will just make him more vulnerable to his taunting. So as long as that possibility exists that Fushimi has somehow taught himself how to recognize vegetables with nothing but tactile senses, Yata will not back down.

(Maybe Fushimi’s programmed himself for it. He’s probably half-robot, isn’t he?)

There’s a whistle blow, and Yata’s hands immediately reach out for thing on the table. It’s kind of warm, and Yata somehow doesn’t put two and two together until Fushimi’s drawling voice spits, “Misaki, I’m attempting to get this silly game show over with. Let go of my hand.”

Yata drops Fushimi’s hands immediately, red face drawing laughs from the crowd, and his hand automatically smacks against a metal pot. (They brushed fingers earlier. Why did he jump straight ahead? He knew Fushimi’s hand was right there, what kind of fucking brain fart did Yata get?)

To distract himself, he immediately jumps right into the task. Willing his blush to die down, he much too forcefully inspects every material he comes across, placing them in the large metal pot he originally bumped into. Various vegetables, an uncomfortably cold stick of butter, a fucking screaming rubber chicken, small containers of salt and other spices (some of which he inhaled by accident, to the amusement of everyone in the studio), but Yata gets the job done.

He reaches the end of the table, but the whistle doesn’t blow to signal the end of the section. “Oi, wait, I finished, didn’t I?” (Unbeknownst to him, he's facing the completely wrong direction; he jumps when the host turns him around to face the camera.)

"Ah, but our dearest Fushimi-kun isn't!" Without removing his blindfold, the host once again turns him into Fushimi's direction. Underneath the loud studio music and the audience's general excited chatter, Yata can barely hear Fushimi rifling through the objects on the table. A _clang_ here, a _thump_ there, but it's altogether much slower than Yata would have expected.

"Oi, Saru!" Yata's enthusiastic as he stomps off in Fushimi's general direction.

A little too enthusiastically, perhaps. He stubs his toe on the corner of the table, jostling the entire thing, and lets out a pained yell. "Misaki, you're disturbing me." Fushimi's voice carries over Yata's immense pain, the studio's sound effects, and the audience's mixed reaction of amusement and concern.

"Disturbing you? I'm already fu—I’m already done! You're just bad at this!" He kicks the table again deliberately this time, for fun, and he thinks throws some sort of wrench into Fushimi's plans when he hears the host's laughter.

"You seem to be mistaking 'bad' with 'not an idiot' and 'not reckless'. You're rushing again, aren't you, Misaki?"

Not bothering to humour that with an answer, Yata instead finds the edge of the table with his hand; once he has bearings on his location, he sprints forward, straight into Fushimi. He takes satisfaction in the way Fushimi slightly loses his balance, the ring of the metal pot against the table.

He laughs, hearty and free. “You good, Saru?” Despite the earlier distraction, Fushimi’s hands don’t stop searching, and Yata imagines the scowl on his face. “Need some help?” Yata grabs the first thing his hand finds—a squeaking rubber chicken, screaming from hell—and smacks Fushimi with it.

“Was that necessary?”

“C’mon, lighten up, Saruhiko!” Yata feels reinvigorated, for some reason. His mind’s been filling in the blanks for Fushimi most of this time because of the blindfold, and there’s a part of him that’s pretending that things never went wrong—not even from an idol point of view, he realizes.

Maybe it’s the kitchen-themed gameshow, but it brings back cozy memories of the two of them: younger, maybe happier, more free.

To the nostalgia, he attributes the action of grabbing Fushimi’s wrist and pulling him forward. The contact is unexpected, the motion even more so, and Fushimi falls into Yata before gaining his bearings. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Speeding up the process!” With his free hand, Yata picks up arbitrary items and throws them into Fushimi’s general direction. Some things end up in the pot. Some things end up smacking Fushimi in the chest, and soon Fushimi is fighting back as well, throwing plastic utensils at Yata’s head.

It feels like their old, stupid, light-hearted games and bickering. Yata wonders if Fushimi is laughing, too; he can’t hear the other over his own laughter. But while he has no visual or audio cue, he could just pretend.

Yata runs out of table and Fushimi runs out of things to throw at him, and so the whistle sounds again. “And that’s the end of the collection phase! You may now take off your blindfolds!"

The lights blind Yata momentarily when he unties it as quickly as he can. (He knows he’s rushing. He thinks maybe he’ll be able to catch a glimpse of the smile he imagined Fushimi to have this entire time.)

(He tries not to be disappointed.)

Yata’s pot ends up alright, which is predictable. Fushimi’s pot is a complete mess, reflecting the state of the table and around it.

The host explains what the two of them were already debriefed on: taking into account their personalities and the nature of the game, they had ingredients and utensils prepared backstage in case anything got destroyed in the scuffle—which many things were, predictably, making the precaution an incredibly good idea.    

One of these prepared pots is brought out to Fushimi, and they return to their cooking stations. Yata’s picked up a few extra things on his hunt around the table; tying on a garish apron and trying not to complain, he soon gets absorbed once again in the joy of cooking.

Fushimi, however, has probably carved a permanent frown into his face from this past half hour alone. “What the hell,” the sullen contestant grumbles. He picks up a knife and starts trying to stab the vegetables.

Yata looks up at the unfamiliar cooking noises and his face turns into one of horror. “Saru, stop, what the fuck.”

He’s already walking over to Fushimi before he can protest; as quick as possible, really, because Fushimi’s going to hurt _something_ at this rate. “What—”

“You’re gonna cut your entire goddamn hand off, here.” Yata takes the knife from him and holds up a carrot. “You want the vegetables cut smaller or larger?”

“What difference does it make?” The look on Fushimi’s face is disinterested; of course. He doesn’t care about his damn vegetables anyway.

“Larger pieces help the taste sink in more. Not that you ate the vegetables anyway, but mom and I always tried larger cuts to get you to stop complaining.” Yata sighs and repositions his hands. “Anyway, don’t leave your fingertips exposed, so kind of—curl up your fingers, just make sure it’s your knuckles.” He places his hand on the carrot and looks up at Fushimi. “Okay?”

Fushimi clicks his tongue in response. “I don’t need your help.” Yata grins and continues.

“Of course you don’t. Anyway, keep your index finger on the blade. Make sure you’re holding things so it’s, like, perpendicular to the knife. And just—” Yata keeps the blade in one place as he pivots the knife up and down, pushing the carrot forward with his hand. “See?”

“It works in theory.”

“And it’ll work in _practice_ , that’s the point of it.” Yata’s competitive nature has lost its edge from the earlier competition, and probably from even before that, and he calls over the host. “’kay, so Saru hasn’t actually started doing anything yet ‘cause he’s hopeless, can he just bring his things over to my counter so we can lessen the risk of burning this place down? And besides, a bunch of my ingredients are weird too since they got kinda squished in the pot.”

“Misaki, I’ll be fine, cooking is just following instructions.”

“You’re clearly not fine,” Yata says dryly. “I was expecting a murder scene with the way you were stabbing things.”

“Well,” the host interrupts, laughing, “It’s certainly unusual, but I think given the circumstances we should ask the audience. They’re the ones who’re watching the show, right? How about it?” The host turns to the audience to address them. “Should we let them?”

The deafening agreement from the audience starts before the host even finishes speaking. Fushimi buries his head in his hands for the second time that day, and this time it’s caught on camera.

“Come on, help me bring your ingredients to my table. Your pot’s bigger.” Yata huffs, clearly pleased with himself, and Fushimi is left to follow.

 

* * *

 

Even under burning hot lights and an audience of thousands (both on set and tuning in), Yata still feels at home with a gaudy apron and Fushimi sulking by his side. He leaves him tasks like _watch the boiling water_ and _I just cut these vegetables—don’t give me that look, put them in the pot_ to minimize risk of death. It reminds Yata of the rare times his mother would try and help Fushimi be sustainable, and his stubbornness then parallels his frustration now.

Yata glances over and the only word he can use to describe the look on Fushimi’s face right now is a _pout_ , and he grins to himself.

_(“Does your mother think I’m a charity case, Misaki?”)_

It’s nice, being like this again.

_(Despite many things being cooked on the spot, there are inevitably leftovers by the time the restaurant closes. Saruhiko becomes a regular fixture of the Yata family restaurant after hours, in one of the corner booths, away from the kitchen and away from the window._

_Around the time Misaki’s mother realizes that Saruhiko will be more or less a regular, there starts coincidentally being enough leftover afterwards for Saruhiko to take home at least two other meals before he, once again, shows up the next night’s dinner._

_Misaki’s mother rarely speaks to Saruhiko, quickly catching onto his generally avoidant and easily overwhelmed personality. But she pulls Misaki aside, occasionally, and says things like_ that boy is so pale, is he eating alright? _and_ I’m glad you have friends who don’t mind this old rundown place.

 _An old rundown place it may be, but it has a certain familial charm that Saruhiko never thought existed outside of fiction. Megumi and Minoru take a liking to him; not being much help to the cleaning process at the end of the day, they join the meals Saruhiko and Misaki share. To his chagrin, they attached themselves to him almost immediately, and Saruhiko goes from_ Misaki’s friend _to_ Saruhiko-nii-san _._

_Saruhiko’s bad with kids. Saruhiko’s bad with families. Saruhiko doesn’t believe in fairytales, and while Misaki always insists his family is far from perfect, it’s all relative. And Saruhiko is beside Misaki._

_So he allows himself sometimes—only sometimes—to close his eyes and absorb the warmth of the Yata household.)_

Yata sings one of Megumi’s favourite songs quietly under his breath, one she would always hum while waiting for her food to cool down, and he thinks he hears Fushimi try to harmonize alongside him.

 

* * *

 

The day the _Achtung! Kitchen_ episode airs, Alphabet Boys watch it in the lounge closest to Fushimi’s room, for “no particular reason”. Hidaka lets out a snort when Fushimi and Awashima finally walk by; the former’s demeanor completely changes when he glances at the TV.

The look on Hidaka’s face is nothing less than absolute glee in his suffering. “Fushimi-san, are you _sulking_?”

“No.” It sounds pettier than he wishes, betraying his actual feelings, and he reaches for the remote and turns it off. Someone immediately turns it on again anyway, and Awashima silently backs out of the room as Doumyouji drags him down to the couch.

“Doumyouji, release me immediately.” The room is stuffy with this number of people and the content they’ve gathered together for.

“No, no, we gotta analyse this.” Doumyouji starts rewinding.

The irrationality of his coworkers’ actions isn’t anything Fushimi wants to dedicate brainpower to at the moment. Or at all, ever. “There is nothing to analyse; it’s a straightforward inane game show. This is a waste of my time. Let go of me.”

“Sure thing, boss, but in a few minutes.” Akiyama’s voice among the group surprises him. _One less voice of reason in this company._ “Oh, wait, Doumyouji, there’s one.”

The grip around Fushimi’s shoulder tightens, and he stops resisting. “Shit, good eye, Akiyama! Enomoto—”

“Stop screaming in my ear,” Fushimi protests, but it goes unheard. “You’re all less than a foot away from each other.”

Pursing his lips, Enomoto zooms in as far as he can on Fushimi’s face on-screen. “Yeah, yeah, I gotcha. So,” Enomoto begins, making uncomfortable direct eye contact with Fushimi in the room, “this is the part where Yata-san says he wants the two of you to cook together, and here’s the face you make the second before he says that. I like to call this look ‘fond exasperation’.”

“’ _Fond exasperation_ ’, he says.” Hidaka laughs, smacking a hand on the ground. “Fuck, this is too good.”

“We’ve already gone over the obvious things.” To Fushimi’s further horror, Benzai takes the phone out of Enomoto’s hand. “Phone photos are a bit crude, but we thought we’d have more time to compile the footage before you came back; these were simply for timestamping purposes, but as always, Fushimi-san, you’re ahead of the game. Here’s Yata-san holding your hand, here’s Yata-san smacking you with the cucumber, here’s you looking extremely uncomfortable—”

Fushimi’s low growl does nothing to deter the torture from those around him.

 

* * *

 

Alphabet Boys aren’t the only one tuning into the show and watching their coworkers’ dynamic; Yata and Fushimi’s competitive nature draws more people in as _their_ fans (rather than just “fans of Fushimi” and “fans of Yata”), and people start establishing them as a friendly duo.

Their popularity also leads some to finally link them to their past schools; all of a sudden, fan accounts spring up from every corner of the internet, telling the world about their shared life in middle and high school.

 _Those guys were always inseparable, Fushimi-san and Yata-san,_ some of them would say. _They had all their classes together magically. It was like fate ww_

Yata gets a sick feeling in his stomach. Not a single true fan account has arisen, and he doubts any ever will, because everyone wants to pretend they knew the legendary Yata Misaki and Fushimi Saruhiko instead of admitting that they continuously shoved the two of them away.

Most of the fan accounts are about Fushimi, and subsequently, received most of the negative stories. He never reveals himself, and so it leaves people open to create something for him.

 _Fushimi-san was a really gloomy guy_ , _but he’d light up when Yata-san started talking to him wwwww He’d glare at you in the hallway if you looked at him the wrong way. Or if you looked at Yata-san the wrong way too, actually. lol_

_I hear he beat up a bunch of high schoolers for fun one time when he was in middle school… what a scary guy. Should we really have someone like that as an idol?_

_lol he looked like such a creep, he was always in his corner looking really emo XD Sometimes I wonder if he intimidated Yata-san into being his friend._

Although Fushimi doesn’t care on a personal level, he’s forced to address it professionally. It’s not just about his own image—if he doesn’t denounce anything now, the joint concerts will suffer.

Yata’s been affected too, of course—they’ve always been intertwined—but on a lesser scale. And on some level, Fushimi really isn’t surprised that the other would speak about this publicly before he could.

One of Yata’s talk show appearances is scheduled before one of Fushimi’s, and the fan accounts are brought up as a topic.

“It’s not cool to make things up about other people, you guys.” There’s a seriousness in the way Yata holds himself, different from his energy or his nervousness. “I read a lot of those fan accounts, and not a single one I’ve read was true. Even the nice ones.”

Kusanagi doesn’t know whether to pat him on the back or smack him in the head for his honesty.

“And Saru looks like a gloomy guy, but he’s really just…” Yata struggles for a word. “Awkward. He didn’t beat anyone up, he didn’t threaten me if I didn’t become his friend. Hell, he couldn’t even beat my times in track.” He breaks his sentence with a chuckle. “But Saru’s an alright guy. Don’t write awful things about him.”

Fushimi is watching the stream with Awashima. He gets up and leaves the room for lack of a better response; there’s annoyance that Yata is poking into his business, but there’s something else he doesn’t want to name, too.

Some of the fan accounts get taken down after Yata’s appearance, but some others arise this time, badmouthing him for defending Fushimi. _If he’s defending Fushimi, then what else is Yata hiding?_

_It’s always the really happy looking ones that are insane lol, Yata Misaki anyone?_

When Fushimi is prompted to speak on air a few days later, the fan accounts have been getting more mixed reactions, and the validity of everything is starting to be questioned. He maintains a nonchalant attitude, because there’s no real point in hiding the fact that he just doesn’t care.

“No one interacted with me all throughout school except Misaki,” Fushimi says, with no trace of embarrassment. “I don’t care what you make up about me, but making me deal with it is just annoying.”

The talkshow host is straightforward, trying to squeeze all he can out of Fushimi. “So you’re saying the same thing Yata-san said, that all of these are fake? Isn’t that just convenient, that not a single one of all these negative accounts is true?”

“Did Misaki not also deny the ones that spoke highly of us? Do I have to explain everything?” Fushimi squeezes the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “Isn’t it also convenient that the only pictures that surfaced of us are either from Totsuka-san or our yearbooks? If everyone knew us so well, why don’t we have pictures with them? Like I said, no one talked to me. Maybe,” Fushimi says, looking into the camera and smirking in challenge, “you’ll be able to find me if you scroll through all your selfies and look in the corner of the classrooms hard enough.”

Fushimi’s interview airs in the early evening; Awashima is watching in one of the lounges with some of the Alphabet Boys and Munakata, and one of them (or all of them) will probably report back to him about how it went.

It’s a jam-packed thirty-minute interview, and when the timeslot has passed, Totsuka links him to his most recent blog post. His defense isn’t surprising to Fushimi, either. _Bleeding hearts, all of you._

The page loads up and the title of the blog screams at him: _EMERGENCY (not really w)_. “Quick on the draw, aren’t you, Totsuka-san.” Fushimi squints down at the screen.

 _> > EMERGENCY (not really w)_.

_Totsuka Tatara here with an EMERGENCY! Thank you for supporting your Yata-kun always (and recently, Scepter 4’s Fushimi-kun who has come back to us temporarily). If I post predebut pictures of the two of them, will all those negative people drag me into their mess as well for ‘defending the bad, bad idols’? Too bad! w_

The first of two images is captioned _sorry, Fushimi-kun!_ and is of the two of them sitting in their dorm room, Yata on the bed and Fushimi on the floor, picking at their instruments. Fushimi’s expression is unguarded, facing the camera—he remembers Totsuka calling out suddenly, Yata being too focused to look up, and Fushimi doing so out of surprise.

_(Saruhiko hides his face immediately._

_Misaki puts the guitar down on his bed and runs up to the college student standing in the doorway. “Heh, Saru, your face looks so dumb. Totsuka-san, keep it. Then every time Saru pretends he’s hot shit on stage I can just show this picture to him.” He zooms in on Saruhiko’s face and cackles._ )

The second is of the two of them on that same bridge from the first time they sat in Totsuka’s office and tried to look at photos. It feels less intimate than the one he showed them originally, and Fushimi exhales in relief.

Kusanagi is leaning his back on the guardrails, eyes towards the camera as if he’s just noticed Totsuka; Yata and Fushimi face towards the sea, pointing at something in the distance. They’re caught mid-conversation—Fushimi has his mouth open to speak, pointing at something in the distance, and Yata is grinning.

Instead of captioning it, Totsuka just continues with his post. _Now, I know that’s a weird thing to try and prove they’re good kids, but really. Look at how scrawny Fushimi-kun is, I don’t think he really could beat anyone up (Sorry again, Fushimi-kun!)_

“Stop apologizing, I really don’t care.” Fushimi continues to scroll down.

_And Yata-kun always keeps good company. He draws good people to him, even if it’s not immediately obvious. But I promise I won’t pry anymore~ No more negativity! Let’s all just keep supporting our Yata-kun and our Fushimi-kun, and OXIDIZE and Alphabet Boys who will perform with them very soon~!_

_Hmm, maybe these photos did nothing after all. But at least the fans get a nice surprise for sticking with our boys through and through!_

_~ Totsuka Tatara_

He sends a text back to Totsuka: _And why did you send me this? Stop being so nosy._

The only response he gets back has nothing but a happy kaomoji; he puts his phone back in his pocket and leans back to grab his bass.

(Fushimi does not reopen the blog post to have one last glance at the images. He is past such sentimentality, he thinks, as he spins a song of longing with his thin fingers over the bass strings.)

 

* * *

 

Yata’s already scrolling through Totsuka’s blog, _not_ looking at old pictures of him and Fushimi, when he gets the text from Totsuka.

 _> >EMERGENCY (not really w)_.

Totsuka doesn’t normally link him to his blog posts, but Yata has an idea what this one might be about.

Yata recognizes both of these pictures immediately—one from when they were first learning guitar, the second by the sparkling blue sea that defined their days in HOMRA Ent.

His first thought on seeing the vulnerable look on Saruhiko’s face is _I miss this idiot_. His second thought is to promptly ignore his first thought.

His third thought, then, is that Saruhiko is not a completely shitty person, that he just takes a lot until he can warm up to you, and even then his good intentions come out kinda weird at times. But he’s not an awful person, really. Saruhiko just doesn’t like people a lot of the time.

When he scrolls down, there are messages approving of the blog post, and here and there are more of the idol conspiracy theorists. He immediately flares up at the sight of the latter, thoughts already racing angrily at the thought of responding, when he stops.

Yata mutters to himself. “Why am I getting so defensive, anyway? Saru’s fine on his own.”

 _Kinda_. Except for the part where he sprained his ankle and insisted on coming to practice anyway, and how he was pushing himself to walk in heels until Yata was worried his feet would bleed, and _then_ the part where Saruhiko couldn’t actually cut vegetables properly and resorted to stabbing them, and—

“Alright, Saru’s a little hopeless, sometimes, I get it,” Yata mutters to himself again. “But he’s not a _complete_ dickwad. And I already did my part as his friend. I talked. He’ll be fine.” Yata talked on live television for Saruhiko, even though he didn’t have to. That’s a pretty cool friend thing to do.

They got each other’s backs. They’re cool again, right?

Friends, maybe?

(But later that night, Yata erases the repeated sentence in the second chorus and—right before he sleeps—he scrawls a crude idea onto the paper. The words rework themselves, over time;

_Wishing for things isn’t inherently foolish,_

_But, you know, calamity blooms when one speaks._ )

 

* * *

 

 _FEBRUARY 2012_

Shortly after debut, Fushimi is scheduled to be on a talk show to discuss his new album. His debut song, _I beg your hate_ , had a lot of his own creative direction for it, rarely seen for many idol debuts—while not completely written by him, he was involved heavily in the composition and lyrics.

Hosts jump onto that, trying to pry information out of Fushimi’s inner workings through his song lyrics. “Fushimi-san, your debut song is so full of passion! He’s a very cool and mysterious romantic type, don’t you think?” They laugh among each other and Fushimi has a smirk on his face.

“Being romantic isn’t my intention.” He waves away all their statements with the lazy roll of his hand. “Isn’t it more about how ugly the dance can be with something beautiful?” Fushimi looks meaningfully at the camera here, and the studio starts cheering at the blatant fanservice.

Yata grits his teeth at the intentionally specific use of the word _beautiful_. “Kusanagi-san, turn this off.”

Only the two of them can recognize how specific Fushimi’s lyrics are to Yata in this moment in time; their past friendship has yet to be uncovered simply because they haven’t been together since Fushimi left.

“I don’t know ‘bout you, but I kinda wanna see what’s goin’ on in Fushimi’s head with _those_ lyrics.” Regardless, Kusanagi complies, the TV clicking off with a small hum of static. “Shouldn’t we check how the competition’s doing?”

“I don’t give a shit about Saru, he’ll probably do fuckin’ fine on his own anyway.” Yata groans in frustration and leans his head back on the couch, trying to sink into it. “But what the fuck is up with that song?”

 _The dance between him and Yata-chan, huh._ “Isn’t he just trying to rile you up?” Kusanagi’s tone remains easy, almost amused by the exchange running between his own idol and his former one.

“Then it’s fuckin’ working!” Yata admits, slamming a fist against the couch. “I don’t know what stick got lodged up his ass, but he’s not allowed to leave and then pretend like it’s my fault for not being _good enough_ or whatever the fuck.”

“Is that what it is?” Kusanagi poses this question more at Yata’s line of thinking, but it’s missed.

“You shoulda heard him, Kusanagi-san, he was like ‘oh, you’re all so annoying and you’re too loud and I don’t like the songs’, and he sounded so _I’m-so-much-better-than-you_ and it—it pisses me off!” Yata stops to take a breath and his voice grows even louder. “And then he had to go on and be with Scepter 4 and now he has an entire fucking _song_ about how much better he is than me.”

“Yata-chan, relax your voice, we’ve got recordings later.”

Yata takes a gulp of water and takes a deep breath. “Sorry. It’s just… yeah.”

“It’s alright, we need to channel that energy for later.”

“For the recording?”

“For when you and Fushimi-kun start battling for sales. You’ve both gotten very popular very quickly, y’know.”

“He doesn’t stand a chance, he can’t act on his stage for his life.” Yata feels his anger morph into a determined grin, and he gets up. “You can count on me, because there’s no way I’m letting _Saru_ do better than me.”

“I expect nothing less, Yata-chan.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Recipe of Happiness" felt kinda campy as a title, so i took from the lyrics, heh  
> [shiawase no recipe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I-YUXp49xAc) / [lyrics](http://www.project-imas.com/wiki/Shiawase_no_Recipe)


	8. liquid sunshine/metacognition: a soliloquy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates are going to gradually get slower until about december; school is kicking my ass pretty hard. i'm also on hiatus from twitter because i'm minimising my online presence. i know i say i have a good amount of these chapters pre-written, but they also go through a shitton of editing and rewriting before posting, and i don't want to post things that have huge discrepancies, which means quality checking is gonna take a lot longer because my life is just happening.
> 
> i haven't completely abandoned this thing though, no way. thanks for hanging around and leaving comments and kudos and reading! it means a lot to me ;_;

JUNE 2013

Fushimi’s composer has long since grown used to him calling her at odd hours with song sketches and unrefined words to put to tunes. She tries to stifle a yawn as Fushimi leafs through his scramble of sheets. “Fushimi-san, have you finished reworking both sets of lyrics?”

“Yeah, I’m checking the timing.” He sits on the windowsill by the piano with his bass, the composer preparing his sheet music at the piano, and he starts.

They run through the sections of the songs multiple times, Fushimi reworking the flow and ebb of the syllables for both versions of the lyrics he’s prepared.

_After all, the distance between common sense and foolishness is paper-thin—_

_(“Eh? Saruhiko? What’s up?” Misaki’s hair is wet, matted to his forehead, because neither of them brought umbrellas that day. Under the awning of the school building they are alone, and it would be easy to reach out and brush it away.)_

Fushimi frowns and tries to brush the memory away. The easiest part of this line of work is that if he inputs a specific, worked image, the fans will output a specific, predictable response. But Yata is both not a fan and not _just_ a fan, and his logic has to rework itself every time they meet.

_Even among the confusion of the rain, it can be heard—_

_(If he leaned in closer right now, he would be able to feel Misaki’s heartbeat, hear the way he speaks with all he has to offer, to accept the words that are said just for him.)_

The composer plays this chorus particularly heavily, creating anticipation for the words that follow; in response, Fushimi strangles the words out, answering the call with more desperation.

_And we close in on the distance between our—_

He lets the outro play through the room; the composer is silent when she finishes, allowing him to speak first. He takes the time to remove his mindset from the song, slowly crafting the aloof personality around himself again.

“…Thank you.”

It’s the first time he’s vocalized his gratitude over these past months, and the composer smiles. “I assume this means you’ve gotten the sound you want?”

“Yeah.” Once the song falls into place, the band’s instrumentation gets much easier; it’s something he’s been thinking about since penning the first set of lyrics back in February.

“Good luck then, Fushimi-san. Be sure to inform us when you’ve finished instrumentation so we can adjust it for our band.”

As he gathers his papers, the composer voices her own curiosity, after restraining it for quite a while. “Does anyone else know you’ve prepared different versions for both rehearsals and the tour?”

“No.” He hides it from even Awashima, and he plans to use the false set until the very first concert in Tokyo.

She seems as though she has more questions to ask, but she refrains from voicing them. Fushimi is relieved at the restraint. “…I suppose I’ll keep it that way as well. It’s been a pleasure to be a part of your creative process, Fushimi-san.”

As far as staff go, she’s certainly not the most incompetent he’s ever worked with. “Likewise.” He bows slightly and leaves the room. Unlike the dance practices that drain him, recordings and compositions give him a nervous aftertaste that he’s never learnt to burn off.

Today, he acts on it. Finalizing his song makes him less nervous and more anticipatory, and so he takes a walk outside. The air is humid from the remainders of the earlier rain; he props open his umbrella to keep out the light drizzle. At risk of being seen this late at night, he hides his head underneath his umbrella and lets the city lights reflected in the puddles guide him around Shizume.

_I want to keep this a secret, I really do._

He spends the entire walk cursing his lack of restraint, leading him to write dramatic and intimate lyrics. There’s already a delicate balance between him and Misaki, one that could go in every direction imaginable, and so Fushimi never acts unless it’s drastic enough to change their entire dynamic in a way he can predict.

He knows that’s what this song is, but he needs the right timing needs the timing for it. The thought _Awashima would be pissed_ runs in and out of his mind and it makes him even _more_ sure of his actions; if Awashima would reject it, it’s definitely overdramatic.

Even if he tries, he can’t keep Misaki out of his words. The false set of lyrics he uses to weave an old memory; he keeps it personal enough for Misaki to remember bits and pieces of their older life, and he laments on old friendships and lost time. It’s thematically similar to his debut song, and so it’s not that far of a stretch.

The real lyrics, the one that came to him almost naturally, start off the same as the false ones before deviating heavily into the personal. Fushimi hates leaving himself open, but he’s riding everything on these four minutes of vulnerability for a memory that’ll embed him in Misaki’s memory for a long while.

The tour starts next February, and he knows it’s a long time to hide his reveal. But if Saruhiko plans to be patient, he can be patient.

 _We went home together in the end,  
_ _And we purposefully left our umbrellas unused._

 

* * *

 

Since _Achtung! Kitchen_ , Fushimi has felt startlingly aggressive. He stubbornly insists to himself that the heat and extended hours are making him more irritable than usual, but it falls apart the very first day he has duet practices with Yata. Already dreading it, he nearly rips the door open; to his chagrin, he’s early for practice rather than being right on time. Yata is already there stretching, and Fushimi glares at him before stepping in front of the mirror to follow suit.

It turns out to be his undoing. When he makes eye contact with Yata, his face immediately breaks out in what can only be described as a shit-eating grin and he stands up to walk to Fushimi.

 “Hey, Saru, why you look so grumpy this morning?”

“Shut up, you’re too loud.” Fushimi deliberately avoids his gaze in the mirror, but Yata creeps up next to him anyway.

“Did you eat this morning? I did make a lot of leftover curry,” he teases, walking around to face the taller boy. Fushimi turns his head away as Yata leans closer into his personal space and makes a noise of annoyance. “Admit it Saru, you’re salty.”

“Am not.” His voice comes out whinier than he’d like, and he knows Yata recognizes that tone because he finds his personal space even further invaded.

“Are too.”

Fushimi leans back so he can turn his head down at Yata.

—Now, part of being an idol is the looks. Fushimi knows that. He knows which of his angles to expose, falls into the habit of half-lidded eyes and slightly opened mouth for the cameras. He knows what image works for him, and he knows how to exploit it the best he can. It’s mechanical, artificial, and not a big deal so as long as it gets him more popular.

But Yata is unabashedly genuine, shines from every angle Fushimi throws at him, because he never toils over calculations to get the right  reaction out of Fushimi and instead simply _exists_. And Yata looked at the thunderclouds differently than he looked out at the sea, differently to how he looks now at the audience and finally at _Fushimi_ , and he wants to steal every single one of those looks and commit it to memory.

He bites the inside of his lip. Right now, Yata smirks up at him, and his bright eyes are unaffected by Fushimi’s discomfort; in fact, the amusement seems to grow stronger the longer Fushimi waits to respond. “Am not. Misaki, is this going anywhere?”

“Are too, and yeah, it’s going somewhere, it’s going to admitting that you’re still upset you lost.” Yata punctuates the last few words by bumping Fushimi with his shoulder for each syllable. Each point of contact sends electricity up his spine and he pushes Yata away.

In more ways than one. “So being this close is okay for you _now_ and not for our cover?” He shifts the topic into something that’ll put Yata on edge, instead, something that’s easy, something predictable.

He watches Yata’s eyes widen underneath him, the red flooding his face in real time as he takes two steps backwards. “That’s completely fuckin’ different!”

(He fills in the rest of the conversation and prepares to execute it.

_How so, Misaki?_

_W-Well, it’s really i-intimate, right?_

_Oh? And you don’t want to be intimate with me, Misaki? [here, he’ll insert a mocking laugh.]_

_Don’t be so fuckin’ creepy, you son of a bitch!_

And then the practice will resume, and Fushimi would have kept the uncertain status quo until he needs to break it at the Tokyo concert.)

“How so, Misaki?” He leans in; he gives enough slack in the line for Yata to bite.

“Well, before practices, you’re still just _Saruhiko_. Kinda. And I don’t get to talk to you a lot like this because we’re always too busy and we see each other for like ten-ish hours a week and, like, nine-point-nine-nine of those hours you’re stage-Saru to get through all of it so—“ (He takes an almost imperceptible pause to breathe, and averts his eyes from Fushimi.) “—we don’t end up talking about whatever. And you always show up right on time to practices, you’re never early, you’re only here when you need to be… yeah. Uh, nice run on sentence there, Yata,” he laughs to himself, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

(The plan crumbles in Fushimi’s hands.)

The execution is not hard for Fushimi to follow; he is practiced in Yata’s speech, and can pick out every point in his absurdly long sentence. The content, however, is something else. It’s brutally honest, as Yata always is, and Fushimi curses mentally for allowing him to throw the balance off.

Fushimi crafts a response that is neutral, but provoking, one that’ll push the balance back to where it was before instead of inching slowly into uncomfortably personal territory. “If we’re practicing our singing alongside the dancing, how do we have time to talk? And of course I’m not going to waste time if I can, my schedule is pretty packed, y’know, Misaki.”

“You don’t actually believe that, do you?” Yata replies slowly, eyeing him with caution.

“You can’t choose to not believe in facts. We practice our singing, and are too busy to talk. Outside of practices, I am busy with work.” A slight deviation from the expected conversation, but an easy response.

“No, I mean, you don’t actually believe you can’t make time for me, right?”

Fushimi lets out a heavy sigh. “You’re so insistent today, I told you, I’m—”

Yata’s eyes widen, and the shit-eating grin returns. “Then what the hell was your debut song all about?” Yata lands a direct hit through the obvious hole in his armour; Fushimi involuntarily cringes, and Yata takes his hesitation as cue to continue. “Don’t say you didn’t write it, you’re credited for lyrics in the album and those lyrics seem _very_ specific, y’know.”

Yata’s tone of voice is partly suspicion and mostly curiosity, but Fushimi plans for the worst; if it doesn’t come, then he makes it the worst. “Really, you’re looking too much into the lyrics. Aren’t we entertainers? We tell stories to gain fans and keep sales up.” He knows this deflection would be flawless if he hadn’t reacted earlier, but he takes the chance anyway.

Really, when did Yata get so forward?

“Hmm, if you say so, Saru.” Yata doesn’t seem convinced at all, but he drops the subject, and Fushimi barely holds back a sigh of his own in relief. “Kinda wish you’d stop avoiding all questions related to me and not be an asshole, but if I could get through to you before, I could get through to you again, right?”

Fushimi’s eyes widen, and he finds himself taking in every detail of the way Yata had held his head back up, straightening his back, and smiling as if it were a challenge he knows Fushimi won’t back down from. “What makes you think that, Misaki?”

“Didn’t I tell you already like, back in March? You haven’t changed where it counts, Saruhiko.” Yata’s challenging smile changes into one of happiness, and Fushimi can see their sparkling sea reflected in his eyes.

“Unfortunately, neither have you.” Fushimi lets it all out in one long breath and starts stretching again. He doesn’t know how, but Yata always manages to see right through him, even in moments as short as these.

“Oh, ‘unfortunately’? Does that mean you’ve already admitted you’ve lost, ‘cause you know I’ll win like I did last time?”

“Don’t get so cocky.”

Despite the earlier slip-up, it doesn’t feel so bad to be talking like this. Fushimi pretends to attribute it to the completion of both sets of lyrics, making him vulnerable again. It’s definitely not the part of him that yearns to be close to Yata again, no longer self-contained within his lyrics.

 

* * *

 

In retrospect, the five minutes before a duet choreo that needs them to be physically touching constantly was a bad time to have that sort of interaction.

The tables have turned, and once Yata bites onto his discomfort, it’s Yata’s turn to embarrass him. He watches Fushimi’s stony face in the mirror as Yata pushes his own comfort zone for the sake of getting to his dance partner.

It backfires spectacularly at the end of practice when Fushimi turns around to him and comments offhandedly, “you sure were enthusiastic today, Misaki _._ ” Fushimi fans himself with his shirt and stalks off in heels, and the entire objective memory of their dance practice floods Yata’s mind and fills him with a deep humiliation.

He hates how easily Fushimi seems to brush him off, how the taunts that _should_ work don’t at all, as if he just didn’t care. It had always been like that, hadn’t it? From the very first meeting in WR Ent. to this _damned choreography_ , Fushimi had always easily deflected everything Yata had to throw at him. It sucks, not just because his friend seems untouchable, but also because Yata is getting affected, and it’s just—it’s just _annoying_.

He fills his mind with insults towards Fushimi all throughout recording for their solo, and he figures, _well, fuck, I might as well write an entire fucking song about Saru instead._

It’s his first real admission that he’s written his song about Fushimi, and it then becomes easier for the words to fall into place, now; it’s hard to make them sound any good. Yata writes down his ideas in a straightforward way so he can work with composers to refine them.

“Yata-san, this sounds like you’re intending to write a diss track.”

“Good, it’s supposed to be. I’ve had ideas for a while now, but now I’m sure.”

The composer is pointing specifically at a line on the page he’s been given that says ‘you’re stupid, stop making excuses and running away, you idiot’. “I admire your straightforwardness, but diss tracks get their strength through their clever wordplay.”

“You’re like, the perfect composer, even your disagreeing with me sounds fancy!”

“…Alright, let’s work on that line, since we’re already on the topic. Could you elaborate more on that? Backstory helps more if we want to improve anything, but don’t feel pressured.”

Today’s practice immediately comes to mind. He’d talked to Fushimi more casually than they had these past months without anyone having to faint to break the ice. And Yata had spilled his entire goddamn life story to him—even if things are awkward between them, Fushimi is still one of the few people in his life who can follow along with what he’s saying.

 “Yeah, I just wrote that today, actually, ‘cause Saru was trying to act all mysterious and cool but I saw through all his bullshit, y’know? And it wasn’t even that hard to just break it all apart, it was just like… _whoosh_.”

“By ‘Saru’, are you referring to Fushimi-san?” The composer looks up at him questioningly.

Yata backtracks. “No. Well, I mean, yeah, but I’m trying not to, but I can’t _help it_ , you know?” He feels a rush of embarrassment through his entire body and he closes himself off slightly. “I mean, he’s the one I have to work the closest to, and we _were_ really close in the past, so now it’s just weird and I’m always thinking about how I’m acting or whatever. He just has a way of getting under your skin and, like, staying there.”

After a moment of silence, the composer responds, clearly amused. “Idols write cheesy love songs all the time. Maybe that angle might be a little better?”

“No!” Yata screams almost immediately. “I mean, yes! I mean—who’d ever write a love song about _Saruhiko_?” He laughs and shoves his fists in his pockets with more force than he’d expected.

A love song wouldn’t do anything. Saruhiko wouldn’t even notice. Saruhiko would just make fun of him for it, and then Yata’s _completely non-existent feelings_ can go unnoticed. Because he’s not hoping or anything like that, because he’s only friends with Saruhiko, and even if they were anything more the fans would tear them apart—

“Anyway,” he insists, more to stop his thoughts than the composer’s, “help me call Saruhiko an idiot and get away with it.”

The composer raises his arms in defeat. “Just a silly question, Yata-san. Although I did get a better understanding of what you’re trying to convey.”

“Huh? What did that have to do with anything?” His embarrassment quickly gives way to confusion, only amplified by the strange smile on the composer’s face.

“Don’t worry about it. Did you bring your music?”

Grateful for the switch in topic, Yata quickly takes his guitar out of his case and strums a few quick chords. “It’s a little weird on acoustic, but I think I can get the mood across alright.”

Lyrics in hand, the composer turns around on the piano bench and faces him. “Then take it away, Yata-san.”

 

* * *

 

(Yata squints at the paper. “Isn’t this a little too fancy for me?”

“Well, it is what you asked for.”

Shrugging, Yata forms the chords for the pre-chorus, adding in the unfamiliar words.

_The thoughts you cling onto are paper-thin, with no substance; do you even understand?)_

 

 


	9. Tulip

JULY 2013

Although people have been noticing OXIDIZE and Alphabet Boys together since the beginning of the year, no one _actually_ expected them to record an album, let alone one where the members among the four parties have been mixed. It’s met from the majority with excitement and the minority complaining about sellouts, but there’s no doubt that it’s surprised the fans in a good way.

 _Kingdom Come_ is an EP with six songs—Amethyst Forge, Lilac Bloom, a Yata-Fushimi duet, Alphabet Boys, OXIDIZE, and an ensemble piece featuring Anna. From then on, it’s no longer _just_ Alphabet Boys or _just_ OXIDIZE, because everyone wants to mix up the units to try and get their heads around the chemistry between them. Fushimi and Yata haven’t been left behind in the slightest; a duet track between them has been a dream for many since their first talk show together.

Anna receives more attention too, and she seems brighter at the mention of the EP in some of her interviews. “OXIDIZE, Saruhiko, and Misaki have been my friends for quite a while,” she says in her light voice, “and Alphabet Boys get along well with everyone in OXIDIZE. When I get to work with everyone all together, the atmosphere always feels so bright and warm.” The corners of her mouth turn up ever so slightly into a smile, and Misaki feels himself tear up.

This EP is also the cause for their first photoshoot as Kingdom Come. The theme is royalty, to match their new ensemble title. The outfits match between the mixed subunits, but everyone is colour-coded by company.

OXIDIZE, Yata, and Anna are placed in well-fitting silks and flowing capes and robes. Their movements turn into an ethereal dance around the set, their normally harsh movements becoming fluid in front of the camera.

Anna and Yata are the most regal-looking of HOMRA Ent.; Anna’s outfit is gorgeous and flares out like a phoenix’s feathers, and everyone in the room is drawn to her when she glides across the set. Yata’s outfit is more embellished than the rest of OXIDIZE’s, but the crown that’s supposed to be atop his head sits on Anna’s for HOMRA Ent.’s group page.

Where HOMRA Ent. scorches, Scepter 4 cools. Alphabet Boys and Fushimi are dressed as tightly as the other company is, but in a deep blue. Their image is neater and more restrained, and the air they give off is as if they were already at the peak of their kingdom, looking down. Every single one of them is a different taste of Prince Charming with high collars and sharp eyes.

Fushimi’s crown is identical to Yata’s, with the embedded jewels being the ocean’s blue rather than the fire red. He keeps it lopsided on his head.

To their managers’ dismay, every single one of them is equipped with swords for show. As a compromise, the photographers allow them a few moments after each shot to swing at each other and chase each other around, and they get their shots for the bonus pages of the booklet they have to fill.

 

* * *

 

The day before the release, their managers snag themselves a copy and bring it back to them during their lunch break. As a group, they flip through the final version of the album, pointing at each other and laughing.

 “Akiyama, what’s with the face?” Bandou cackles as Akagi looks over his shoulder, breaking down into laughter alongside him.

“I only have one face, what do you mean my face?”

“No, no, look—” Bandou holds up the booklet and points at Akiyama, standing in the background of one of the candids and looking horrified. Everyone crowds around to see or starts flipping through their own album and the room is filled with laughter.

“I was concerned for everyone’s well-being!”

Doumyouji slings an arm around Akiyama’s shoulder. “It’s okay, fearless leader, we’ll keep you safe, that’s what the swords are for.” He flips through the booklet in Akiyama’s hand and lets out a loud scream of laughter where he pauses. “No, no, no fuck _look at Fushimi-san_ , page fifteen,” he says, chortling.

Akiyama snorts through his nose. “Dear god. Fushimi-san, I apologize,” he starts, tone polite as ever, “but you look like a Myspace scene kid who thought posing with knives was cool.”

“That one was a complete joke, they wanted ‘ridiculous’ and they got it,” Fushimi grumbles from the corner, drinking periodically from his water bottle and looking down at his phone. “Why bother using polite honorifics if you’re going to make fun of me anyway?”

“’Cause it softens the blow,” Hidaka chirps, before breaking out into howling laughter of his own. “Fuck, I can’t take this, Fushimi-san, what the hell is this _face?_ This _pose?!”_

Someone from HOMRA Ent. finds the page and barks in laughter; everyone’s quickly catching up on the page and Fushimi sighs. “I’m leaving.” He gets up and speedwalks out of the room before anyone can try to catch him.

The page in question is a solo page; much like the other members, Fushimi’s been told to pose with the various props. It’s a  3/4 face shot of Fushimi; his head is tilted up, he’s smirking, and he’s holding one of the prop throwing knives between his teeth.

“God, can you imagine if that was, like, a hugeass sword?” Chitose hypothesizes between laughs. “Or a real sharpened sword, and he just—he just fights like that?” The rest of the sentence dissolves as Chitose lets out a high pitched wheeze of laughter.

“Just, like, swingin’ his head around, you mean?” Yata grins, making _whoosh_ ing sound effects as he inspects the photo closer and breaks into another fit.

“Or like, Naruto runs or something—” Enomoto has tears in his eyes as he holds a fist up to his mouth to stifle his laughter.

Fuse tries to keep it cool, but his face desperately wants to twist into a smile when he glances at the page. “Do you really think Fushimi-san would be that irresponsible with weaponry?”

Eric is bent over in laughter, but his voice is loud with joy as he responds. “You’re right. Even _I_ can’t believe it.”

The room is sent in another round of laughter. Doumyouji runs out of the room, holding his stomach. “Fuck, I need to pee, I can’t take this anymore,” he blurts out.

For the rest of the day, no one can make eye contact with Fushimi without desperately struggling to hold back laughter.

It’s the last practice of the week, so at least Fushimi wouldn’t have to deal with this for at least two more days. Noting the sour look on his face, Kusanagi puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Fushimi-kun,” he starts. He pauses to think about it. “Okay, I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” he finishes, letting out a snort.

“Duly noted, Kusanagi-san.”

Even _Awashima_ is trying not to crack as she drives them back to Scepter 4. The tension in the air fills the car until Fushimi can’t take it anymore. “Awashima-san, just laugh. It’s less annoying than watching you try not to.”

“I do not need to laugh. That would be rude.”

Fushimi lets her sit in silence. She taps her finger on the steering wheel a few times and bites her lip. A snort escapes her and she gives in, laughing openly. “Should I teach you proper knife technique, Fushimi?”

He massages his temples.

 

* * *

 

Fushimi notices a spike in number of interactions from the other members in following practices—not just in making fun of him, but also in general greetings. Their greetings don’t sound awkward, as if they were worrying about overstepping boundaries by merely acknowledging his presence.

Now, they greet him as cheerfully as they do for everyone that comes through the door. It’s something new, something _strange_ , and Fushimi tucks away the ambiguous feelings so he can label them some other time.

Even Yata’s been _more_ insistent than usual. Fushimi would say it was _Achtung! Kitchen_ that was the first huge shift in their dynamic, but it’s been happening slowly for longer than that, hasn’t it? A few months ago, Fushimi would have pushed him away, sent him back to the dogs now named _Kingdom Come_. But now, with two sets of words wrapped around his microphone, he hangs on.

Fushimi is reminded of Yata’s insistence come his birthday.

 

* * *

 

Usually, they all go out someday near the end of the month to celebrate everyone who had gotten older in that month. Since Yata is the only July birthday, they celebrate two days before the actual date, after their ensemble practice, with the staff allowing them to leave early to eat out for dinner. Yata now has more people than ever to celebrate with; last year he only had a few of the trainees, and every year before that it had just been Fushimi.

Fushimi, who might as well have not had been here this year at all. He sent a quick _“Happy birthday, Misaki.”_ right at midnight, but he hadn’t responded to any of Yata’s other texts. Even when everyone around him was wishing him well, goofing off during practices to put Yata on the spot, Fushimi’s action (or lack of) was firmly planted in the back of his mind.

The restaurant is hectic as fifteen starved boys and their staff grab at food and walk around to wish Yata a happy birthday; even with Suoh pulling strings to get the place emptier, the inside is beautifully chaotic. Yata welcomes the mood of the room, feeling oddly at home even among Scepter 4’s company.

The Alphabet Boys have started to grow on him too, passing along their own well wishes for a birthday and plopping a paper crown on his head. Hidaka suddenly stands, bringing Yata with him. “You know the drill, Yata.”

“Oh, would you look at that, my birthday was actually _last_ month, there’s no need to celebrate.” Yata eyes Awashima in the corner, who calls a server over for a request only heard between the two of them.

“Really, if you wanna blame anyone, blame Fushimi-san.” Akiyama’s voice takes a turn for the

dramatic, and there’s a laugh from OXIDIZE. “No, no, no, this is no laughing matter. You know how this started? Do you really want to know?”

The room quiets down slightly, and Akiyama starts to incorporate more theatrics into his storytelling. “When Awashima-san finally had someone trapped in her grasp—” An offended cough from the corner interrupts him. “…When Awashima-san was assigned to Fushimi-san, she would—of course—celebrate his birthday with a special gift.”

“And he loved the gift so much he passed it on to _every single one of us on our birthdays_.” Enomoto tries to make his voice dramatic, but the horror he feels comes through his tone.

“What the fuck is Scepter 4’s management?” Eric asks, his eyes shining with clear amusement. “Why do you all sound like you want to die?”

At that moment, the server comes back with a plate hidden under red bean paste. Yata quickly scans it before looking desperately at Fujishima, who only looks away. Even Akagi is oddly quiet, and both of them are evidently trying to repress dark memories of their April birthdays past.

Doumyouji imitates a fanfare. “Once again, as Alphabet Boys we pass onto the rest of HOMRA Ent. a new tradition: our very own _Ankoshima-sama’s_ Ice Cream Special!”

It gets placed in front of him, and he stares at it in horror. “Is there ice cream with the red bean?”

“Oh, but there is.” Kamo clicks his nail against a millimetre of the glass near the bottom. “See?”

Awashima looks at him, daring him to ignore it. Swallowing loudly, he puts a spoon through the red bean paste. His hands are shaky as he brings it to his mouth. The entire group cheers when he swallows the first bite down, and he stutters, “T-Thank you, Awashima-san.”

“Have a good birthday, Yata.” The look on her face holds none of the mockery he’d expect it to have; in fact, it’s probably the fondest look he’s ever seen on her face, and he thinks, _oh god, she actually thinks this is a good birthday present._

It guilts him into eating the rest while everyone continues on with their meals. He wants to ask Fushimi how he got through this the first time, but as he scans the table quickly he only counts fifteen.

Fifteen starved boys in the restaurant, and one hidden in the corner on his phone. Yata falls backwards out of the mess that is the table and walks back to where he’s sitting.

Yata tries to bite back disappointment as he sits down on the floor next to Fushimi. _I mean, at least he showed up. But still, he could look more enthusiastic._ He leans back into the wall and glances quickly at Awashima before whispering. “How did you survive the first time she pulled this on you?”

“I didn’t,” Fushimi responds, voice filled with an emotion like disgust. “Why are you here?”

“Because you won’t come sit with the rest of us at the table,” Yata responds as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And it’s my birthday, I _want_ everyone to be together. Did you even eat yet?”

His eyes break away from the screen to stare at him. “What does that matter?”

“It matters because your diet fuckin’ sucks, and now that I’m here I get to nag you about eating.” Yata briefly remembers _Achtung! Kitchen_ , and all the times he’s ever had to cook for the stubborn boy. “And I know you can’t cook for shit. So I get to double-nag you.”

Fushimi only rolls his eyes in response. “Not worth it.”

With new determination, Yata walks back to the table and grabs an extra plate, taking all the meat he can fit on the plate with extra rice on the side. Fushimi’s face twitches into a bewildered one, and it makes Yata laugh out loud.

“It’s my only birthday wish, ‘kay? Just fuckin’ eat today.”

Technically, it’s not his only wish. His wishes are kind of a sliding scale: one, get Fushimi to eat. Two, bring Fushimi back to the table. Three, get Fushimi to stop being so cranky to everyone, because he’s actually _alright_ to be around when he’s not being a little pissy baby. Four, finally establish that they’re _friends_ again, and that things shouldn’t be weird. Number five is an impossible dream, but some things just have to be impossible, right?

Fushimi puts his phone away. Yata ignores the voice that says _you can’t turn back_ time and he places the plate in pale hands. Fushimi’s eyes roam across the plate, taking in the variety of food he’s been given.

There’s silence, where Fushimi keeps staring at the plate. Yata grows impatient. “Are you gonna eat already?”

“My hands are full, Misaki. Feed me.” Fushimi looks up from the plate to make eye contact with Yata, who is unamused.

“Sorry, let me reword my question. Are you an idiot?” He could go for wish number two, and Fushimi would never know he’d cheated when he said he only had one birthday wish. “You’re supposed to eat _with_ us.”

“There are too many people.” Fushimi’s never been one for huge groups of people, usually hiding in the corner much as he is now.

But, hey—something doesn’t add up, and it’s something that’s been on Yata’s mind for a while, now. If Fushimi hates being surrounded by people, why did he stay an idol instead of just leaving? How are thousands of screaming fans in stadiums any more bearable than this? “Wait, didya just say there are too many people here for you?”

Fushimi’s eyes narrow in confusion. “Yeah. Misaki, have you forgotten what I’m like already? One birthday and you get catapulted into old age?”

Yata ignores the second question, lost in thought. _No, I haven’t, and that’s the weird part._

Totsuka chooses the time to take out his phone. “Update for twitter!”

It’s great timing. Fushimi can’t hide his face or try to escape because of the plate in his hands. Yata takes the chance: he puts an arm around Fushimi’s shoulders and grins for the camera. He also lets the questions slide, mostly because he really doesn’t want to think about these things on his birthday.

“Misaki, get this plate out of my hands.” Fushimi turns his head towards him as the flash goes off.

Totsuka starts typing and the former chaos returns to the room. Yata chuckles. “Fine, fine. But you need to eat, still.”

“You’re a pain in the ass.” Regardless, Yata removes the weight in his hands and scoots back over to the table, unceremoniously pushing Hidaka over to make room between them. Fushimi drags a pillow in between them, sits down, and begins to eat; Yata accidentally keeps bumping into him, but the look on Fushimi’s face isn’t as annoyed as he’d think it was, and he maybe keeps bumping shoulders just a little more for the familiar warmth.

 

* * *

 

At some point, Yata realizes Fushimi had left the room and never actually came back. _Probably_ _hiding out like a loser nerd._ He grins to himself and stands up. “I’ll be right back, I’m findin’ Saru.”

The other part of the restaurant is just as lively as their private room, and Yata doesn’t think Fushimi’ll find any sort of refuge here, so he nods at the server by the front door as he steps out.

It’s cooler outside than inside the restaurant; they’re heading well into late night and are currently showing no signs of stopping. There aren’t too many people out on the streets, but the narrow road still glows brightly with warm lanterns and softly blinking signs.

Saruhiko is leaning against a railing on the side of the street, looking up into the sky. Misaki comes to lean next to him.

“What’s up?”

“Too many people.” The answer is the same one he gave earlier, but his voice is softer. He says nothing else.

Misaki turns his head up, trying to find the point at which Saruhiko is staring at. The street is too bright to see any of the stars clearly, but he can still spot quite a few of them stubbornly shining through the pollution to reach them, millions of lightyears away.

“They’re trying so hard,” Misaki mutters absentmindedly.

“What?”

“The stars.”

“They’re stars, Misaki, they can’t _try_.” Saruhiko’s tone isn’t scolding, but sounds more like the amusement he held for Yata’s old whims and ideas.

“No, you know what I mean? Like, there’s all this light coming in from the streets, but there’s still a few that shine through.” Misaki thinks about how, even with all the people around him preparing for the concert, he’s still drawn to Saruhiko. Everyone’s personality is lively and bright and Misaki really likes them, but his eyes always search for the one light that tries to hide itself. “They’re so stubborn. It’s like you, Saru.” He laughs, keeping his eyes up to the sky.

There’s a shuffle of movement next to him, somewhat hesitant; Misaki is broken out of his thoughts by something pressing against his chest. Saruhiko’s holding a small package against his ribcage, right above his heart, and Misaki grins as his eyes follow his arm up to his face.

Saruhiko’s not looking at him. He’s still got his head turned up towards the sky, but it’s not so much to look at the stars as it is to avoid looking at Misaki.

“Hey, what’s this?” Misaki’s smile comes through his tone of voice, and he only smiles wider when Saruhiko scowls up at the heavens.

“It’s a present. You’re supposed to find out yourself.” Fushimi presses the package again into where he’s holding it against Misaki’s chest.

“But you’re holding it against me, Saru, I can’t pick it up.” Misaki is just deliberately ruining the moment now, watching the expression on Fushimi’s face contort into barely restrained distaste.

A sound of annoyance. “Never mind.” Saruhiko’s hands start moving to take away the package when Misaki’s hands fly up to stop him, turning to face him. “No, no, wait, I’m kidding.” It doesn’t feel like a threat, because this entire conversation has felt normal and light and _familiar_.

(The heat makes everything hazy, makes inhibitions more relaxed and mouths run looser. Their friendship was born in the summer, and it’s the overwhelming nostalgia of the entire situation that has Misaki acting the way he does within the next fifteen minutes.)

(This is the only explanation Misaki wants to hold onto when he looks at this moment in retrospect.)

He looks up hesitantly to Saruhiko, scared of the expression he’ll find on his face.

It’s simultaneously the best expression he could hope for in this situation and the worst one. Saruhiko’s looking at him, nonplussed. Misaki feels small under the gaze, but it’s not judging, and it’s an expression more open than the one he’s been seeing on Saruhiko lately.

“Uh, yeah, no, I’ll stop. I mean, I’ll take it—well, I mean, okay, fuck it.” The words spill out clumsily as Misaki removes his hand from Saruhiko’s wrist and holds onto the corner of the package.

Saruhiko attempts to leave without making a sound, but with his free hand, Misaki tugs him back. “Oi, you’re not going anywhere. Is your present so shitty that you don’t wanna see me react to it?”

Saruhiko, with a noise of disapproval, removes his hand and leans back against the railing.

Licking his lips, he turns the package over in his hands; it’s really more of a smaller envelope, if anything, and he could almost guess what was in it if there weren’t unexpected bumps here and there.

He slides a finger from where the flap isn’t completely sealed and rips the package open. There’s two small things inside, the larger of which is easier to slide out.

Misaki grins when it catches the light. He’s used a specific set of guitar strings ever since they started learning, and Saruhiko’s gotten him the exact weight and length of the strings that feel the nicest under his fingers. He turns the envelope of strings over and over in his hand before turning his attention up to his friend. “Shit, you remembered!”

The awkward reaction is rather charming; in moments like these, it’s not hard to imagine why Saruhiko has fans. He looks at Misaki, looks away, and says, “It’s not hard for an idiot as picky as you are.”

“You’re one to talk.” Misaki slides the envelope slowly into the larger one and scoops a finger out to collect the smaller plastic bag that sits at the bottom. At the motion, he sees Saruhiko look even farther away from him.

The larger envelope gets placed in his pocket as he takes the tape off and empties its contents into his hand.

It falls, attached to the cardboard; two pairs of earrings, one red, one blue. Misaki automatically reaches his hand up to his left ear, feeling the two helix and the single earlobe piercing. Without a word, he reaches out to the single stud he has in his right ear—plain and simple gold—and replaces it with one of the blue ones.

Saruhiko faces away from him the entire time. “You didn’t have any red ones for the minialbum.”

And it’s true, Misaki didn’t. His piercings were black and gold, contrasting against sunny skin and fiery hair. The explanation, the one Misaki didn’t even prompt from him, is more sentimental than he could have ever expected from _Fushimi Saruhiko_ , and he feels a surge of affection that he quickly tries to bite down. “Yeah, I’m already awful enough with colour-coordination, red probably would have made it worse.”

When Saruhiko stays silent, Misaki raises an eyebrow. “Not that these are awful, Saru.” The laugh he lets out turns the other boy’s head enough to be able to look at him out of the corner of his eyes. “Actually, these are really nice.” He draws attention to himself with his actions, making Saruhiko watch him take out the other gold one off his left ear and put a red one in instead.

“Pick one colour or the other, Misaki, now you really just clash.” Saruhiko’s noticed the light reflecting off the blue in his right ear, and Misaki’s face is starting to hurt from smiling so wide.

“I wanna make the blue one the only one on my right ear, right?” Misaki plays with the stud between his finger and thumb, and Saruhiko finally turns all the way to look at him.

And there’s a moment. Misaki _knows_ it’s a moment. And here it is: the two of them in the empty street at almost one in the morning. Whatever light there is around them is ambient—warm lanterns, soft lights through blinds, and signs that have seen brighter bulbs. They’re under the fucking _stars_ , for god’s sake, Saruhiko gave him fucking _jewelry_.

Saruhiko, who’s looking down at him with what attempts to be neutral but is kind of self-conscious and maybe even a little nervous. _I already told you I liked the presents, idiot_ , Misaki wants to say, but he’s frozen in place. Misaki feels _affectionate_ right now, and _affectionate_ and _Saruhiko_ don’t normally go together, but it feels right this time.

Misaki’s hand stills around the stud in his right ear. Saruhiko sighs and tilts his head down for the first time since they started talking, gaze moving past Misaki’s face and settling on the streets beneath them, and as he breathes out the beginning of Misaki’s name he gets spoken over out of pure alarm.

“No, Saruhiko, I liked the presents, I liked them a lot,” and his voice sounds really jittery and it went up a few octaves and it seems _fake_. Saruhiko doesn’t move his head, looks at him through his eyelashes, brows furrowing in confusion. “I—thank you, really, I—”

Saruhiko raises an eyebrow, previous bashfulness gone so quickly Misaki wondered if it was even there to begin with.

What does he _do_ to thank him? They’ve given each other presents before, but they’ve usually been things they can do together, straight away—video games, technology that Saruhiko’s found or made, food Misaki’s cooked. So, what now?

 …Have they ever even actually hugged before? One armed hugs don’t count. And they’ve leaned on each other before, like, Misaki’s slept in his lap a few times when they were younger, but—and—and the dances bring them really really _really_ close but that’s because they have to, right? So they’ve never actually hugged or anything?

Would it be weird to start now? Is that, like, a normal friendship thing? Would Saruhiko take it the wrong way? (Why would Saruhiko take it the wrong way? It’s not like Misaki, y’know, _likes_ him—)

Misaki shuts down. Misaki is on autopilot as his hand shoots out to hold Saruhiko’s.

Saruhiko is just plain concerned at this point. “Misaki?”

For some reason, his brain screams _FIRM HANDSHAKE_ and he does, one strong shake before dropping his hand. “Happy birthday” is what immediately comes out of Misaki’s mouth at the end.

Saruhiko’s confusion twists up into amusement. “Misaki, it’s _your_ birthday.”

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m—” he looks anywhere but Saruhiko, now in full control of his body again. “Fuck, I’m going back inside. Thanks. That sounded sarcastic but it wasn’t. Okay. Right.” He doesn’t even wait for a response to turn around and walk stiffly back to the restaurant, but he can feel Saruhiko’s gaze on him the entire time.

The blue earring shines even more brilliantly under the restaurant’s lights.

 

* * *

 

Saruhiko looks down at his hand, the one that Misaki had shook. “Your hands are sweaty, that’s disgusting,” he complains to the open summer air. Saruhiko wipes his hand on his jeans and leans back against the railing.

Thoughts float aimlessly through his mind, not quite hanging to anything, but the last thing he thinks before he shuts it all down is _I shouldn’t have done that._

Yata Misaki is a song that is stuck in his head, and he can’t get it out. Although he resists the intrusion with every fibre of his being, sometimes, just sometimes, he gives in and sings along.

In the middle of a summer street, sounds of celebration coming from a nearby building, Fushimi Saruhiko sighs. He resets. He gives himself a few moments before he fixes a neutral look back on his face and walking back.

 

* * *

 

Misaki is washing up later that night before heading to bed, splashing freezing cold water over his face. Water as cold as the cool blue hanging off his ear—

“A handshake, Yata. What the fuck. Fuck, goddamnit. Shit. _Fuck_.” He’s alone in the bathroom, and his swears echo back at him.  “Okay, calm the fuck down, Yata.” He slaps his cheeks, pretending that they weren’t already red before. Standing up straight, he glares himself down in the mirror with a new determination.

“He’s just being friendly. It’s your birthday. That’s a friendly thing to do, get someone a present. Yeah. The OXIDIZE guys got me stuff, too.”

Yata imagines that his reflection in the mirror is speaking back to him. _But Saruhiko isn’t like that, is he?_

“Saruhiko’s gotten me presents before.”

_Jewelry is such a girl thing, though._

“Oh.” _Huh_. “So Saruhiko’s just making fun of me again, isn’t he?” It’s no secret that he cringes at every mention of his feminine first name, least of all to Saruhiko.

 _Obviously._ His reflection chuckles. _Don’t get your hopes up, not with Saruhiko._

“What about the guitar strings, then?” He doesn’t wait for an answer this time, breaking the illusion by playing with the earring again in the mirror. No matter which way he looked at it, he had to admit that Saruhiko had put _thought_ in his presents, even if execution and presentation might not have been perfect—but it didn’t mean it was bad, not at all, because Yata—

Yata’s happy. It’s kinda lame, but Saruhiko was being kinda lame, too, getting all embarrassed giving him a present. He’s glad he wasn’t the only one feeling awkward in that ordeal, and somehow it makes Yata feel giddy that someone like _Fushimi Saruhiko_ is capable of feeling awkward and shy when giving someone else something for their birthday.

His friend. His best friend, Fushimi Saruhiko, uncharacteristically timid but insistent in his gift-giving actions. His _Best Friend_ , Fushimi Saruhiko, who held a present in his pocket for Yata the entire night, who flushed a light red under the stars, and—

Yata smacks himself on the cheeks multiple times until they sting a little bit more. _Nothing good comes from thinking these things._

 _It’s a present, and nothing more,_ he tries to convince himself, _just a way of saying, ‘hey, sorry I was an asshole for the past year and a half. I got you thoughtful presents because I, Saruhiko, still care ab—_

The grumble of frustration echoes against the porcelain of the bathroom, and Yata welcomes the pain that comes when he smacks his forehead against the sink countertop.

It’s really, really complicated.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tulip](http://meadowtronic.tumblr.com/post/150062593844) / [lyrics](http://www.project-imas.com/wiki/Tulip#Lyrics)
> 
> life is hectic


	10. Praline

SEPTEMBER 2013

The first set of teasers is to be released right at midnight, officially on the first day of September. Enomoto’s hooked up his laptop to the television in one of the lounges again, frantically refreshing Scepter 4’s official youtube channel.

All of Alphabet Boys, Awashima, and Fushimi are sitting in the lounge. Fushimi has tried multiple times to escape, but someone inevitably drags him back down to the couch. Fushimi’s voice breaks the frantic click of the mouse with a complaint: “Enomoto, you of all people should know not to overload the server with requests.”

“But it’s _exciting!”_

“Gotou is the one uploading the video, you know.” Fuse yawns. “He’s up with PR, and you _know_ he’s not gonna do anything until midnight.”

“Yeah, and you’ve already seen it. You’re _in_ it,” Benzai stresses, “you _filmed_ for it. Why aren’t we refreshing on HOMRA Entertainment’s?”

“Because we’re more important, duh.” Doumyouji is sprawled across the floor, hands in a bowl of popcorn.

The snack’s crunching noise grates on Fushimi’s ears. “Dear god, let midnight come faster.” He and Awashima are at least on the smaller couch of the two, while Alphabet Boys have squeezed on the larger one and are still spilling across the floor.

The second midnight hits, Enomoto screeches. He hits refresh one last time, but the server’s had enough, and has promptly stopped trying to load for him.

“I told you,” Fushimi mutters under everyone’s laughter. He feels a vibration between his leg and the arm of the couch; he recognizes the device as Awashima’s, and she’s got a text.

She takes the phone from him in confusion, and only frowns when she sees the message preview. “Of course.”

She unlocks her phone and Fushimi leans on the couch arm, hovering on a sentence. After a moment of consideration, he lets the words go. “Birthdays are useless, anyway.”

“Oh?”

“As a manager, you’re not useless, though.” He closes his eyes as if trying to sleep, but the ruckus only grows louder when the page finally loads and everyone screams in victory again.

Awashima gives him a questioning smile, trying to bite back her laughter from how _awkward_ the wording was, and then turns back down to her phone.

_Happy birthday, Seri-chan~_

Kusanagi’s attached a picture of much the same scene as she sees here, albeit with _more_ screaming from HOMRA Ent.’s side. It’s obvious the other room is much louder, and the contrast between the enthusiastic boys and a composed Anna starts to feel more and more comfortable.

She takes a picture of her own room with Fushimi’s flyaway hair poking in from the corner, and sends it back with no other response.

After many rewatches, looking at HOMRA Ent.’s teaser, and rewatching theirs again at every speed youtube offers, Kamo speaks up thoughtfully. “Enomoto, scroll down to the comments.”

“See, this is why we call you, like, the dad of the group, ‘kay? The old man. No one wants to read the comments section on youtube. _No one.”_ Hidaka stops Enomoto’s hand before he has the chance to scroll down. “Enomoto. Why would you _ever_ do that to yourself? Let’s stop while we’re ahead.” Hidaka shuts the TV off, and various members in the room groan in frustration.

 

* * *

 

 _PRELUDE TO THE KINGS 2014 TEASER [SCEPTER 4]  
Scepter 4 OFFICIAL  
_ _[September 1, 2013]_

 

_…_

 

 _I’m so excited~ HOMRA Ent. and Scepter 4 are finally coming together fhgldifghdlfu I get to see my lovely Akagi-chan on stage at the same time as HidakaaaaaDFLGHJLDGHkl GGGGGGGGG  
_ _[Denden009, 3 minutes ago]_

+Denden009 _didn’t you even see the minialbum their not in the same unit  
__[Hatsune Miku, 2 minutes ago]_

 _Isn’t this weird? So soon after Heavenbound? wwwww I almost want to buy tickets just to watch this crash and burn.  
_ _[darkpathwalker1, 6 minutes ago]_

 _Is it true that Fushimi-kun and Yata-chan are going to be on stage together?!?!?!  
_ _[-A Fangirl’s Thoughts-, 8 minutes ago]_

 _prelude to the kings more like YOU JUST GOT HIT BY  
_ ¶▅c●▄███████||▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅|█  
▄██ _THE YAOI TANK_ ███▅▄▃▂  
█████████████████████►  
◥☼▲⊙▲⊙▲⊙▲⊙▲⊙▲⊙▲⊙☼◤  
_[urbancatlady, 9 minutes ago]_  
 

+urbancatlady _real people isnt yaoi…….  
__[TruthFactory, 2 minutes ago]_

 

* * *

 

September is a blur of snapshot memories after the teaser is released. Whatever empty spots they had in their schedule for this month are filled almost immediately, well into the first week of October.

 

* * *

                      

(The TV powers up again, humming slightly.)

 

“—cool,” Akagi’s voice rings out from the television. “ _These_ guys get kinda stuffy to be around all the time.” The studio laughs when Bandou smacks him on the back of the head. “But yeah, like, Alphabet Boys and Yata and Fushimi-san are pretty cool dudes. The tour’s been super fun to prepare for.”

“What were all your first thoughts?”

“Chitose got so fired up,” Dewa cuts in before anyone else can. “He went all, ‘we’ve barely done one concert, why’re we tryna do somethin’ with another _company?’_ and now every time he and Hidaka talk I kinda wish I recorded his reaction. Oi, Hidaka, if you’re watching, Chitose hated you—”

“I didn’t _hate_ them, idiot, I was _cautious!”_ The studio laughs again when Chitose huffs, smacking Dewa in the back of the head. “It’s a dog-eat-dog world of the entertainment industry, y’know?”

“Do you regret getting this buddy-buddy, then?” The host asks.

“Nah. They’re… they’re not bad,” he admits.

“But really, it’s like ‘know thy enemy’, right?” Eric nudges Chitose and Kamamoto leans in from the side. “Don’t make it sound like you’re murdering them when this is all over, Eric.”

“But I could be.” He flashes a grin at the camera, but it holds no malicious intent.

“But really,” Akagi says, after the general commotion has died down. “I don’t think anyone could ever ‘know thy enemy’ the way Yata and Fushimi know each other, eh?”

The studio fills with knowing laughter from all parties.

 

(Click.)

 

“—recording for another show.” Only three of the seven Alphabet Boys are behind the counter, sitting across the hosts in their brightly coloured outfits. Akiyama continues. “But they’re here in spirit.”

“All the fans know that Alphabet Boys are incredibly close,” the host begins, “but did you end up feeling that same camaraderie with OXIDIZE when working together for the minialbum and the concert?”

Fuse answers this one. “It was a bit hard at first, but then I realized they’ve just got a different feel. They’re good at what they do, and we’re good at what we do. It’s always been interesting to put us in a same room, because our ideas and approaches are completely different.”

“Fuse, is this a political debate or are we talking about our friends?” Doumyouji continues to swivel on the stool he’s sitting on, and Fuse gives him a look. “Kidding, kidding. I‘d’ve said the same thing, except less fancy.

“But really, save the political debates for Fushimi-san. Why are all the hosts so hard on him anyway?” Doumyouji folds his arms on the table in front of him, serving as a pillow for his head.

“Fushimi-san tends to get the short end of the stick,” Fuse agrees. “But I couldn’t think of anyone better to direct all that pressure to; he doesn’t get fazed easily. He’d feel more annoyed than threatened.”

Akiyama smiles. “Fushimi-san works really hard to argue for all of us, doesn’t he?”

 

(Click.)

 

Ever since _Achtung! Kitchen_ , even _now_ , it’s Fushimi that gets put under the most pressure from hosts. His aloof demeanor has barely cracked—interactions with Yata excluded—and news sites are getting frustrated with the little amount of information he’s giving out. Everyone knows he has a soft side for Yata, but no one can find the reasoning behind that simple fact.

With each and every scathing interview he gets, his defense only gets stronger. He smirks at the thought.

“Heavenbound was… an unmitigated disaster. Millions of dollars of lawsuits: contracts, disregard of health, income, etcetera etcetera, all filed by one Miwa Ichigen on behalf of Heavenbound—who, of course, then disappeared mysteriously after winning.” The host is bloodthirsty, pulling out all the controversies one by one with no hesitation. “It wasn’t the best planned idea to begin with, wasn’t it? The staff situation was messy and sometimes non-existent, and the income was split evenly, if I recall correctly, but much, much lower than deserved.

“What then,” the host says, leaning in, “makes Kingdom Come any different?”

Fushimi no longer tries to hide his annoyance with the questions. With one hand massaging his temple, he lets out a long sigh. _Why must I be the only competent one?_ “Are you are aware that Munakata and Suoh-san are involved in the orchestration of Prelude to the Kings, or has that point slipped out of your moronic mind?”

“History repeats itself, Fushimi-san. Have you so much faith in the industry?” The host clasps his hands, leaning backwards into his armchair. It squeaks underneath him.

Fushimi taps his foot rapidly. “Faith in the industry? Absolutely not. You’re putting words in my mouth.” He’s silent for a moment of time, eyes closed, foot tapping faster, hand still massaging his temple. _I shouldn’t be the one having to do this; why must PR do their job through me? I really don’t care._

 _This is unimportant to me. Awashima-san, why have you done this?_ Fushimi lets out a breath of air and continues. “It’s also common knowledge that Isana Yashiro was, in fact, involved in the process of planning and is still one of our legal, official consultants.”

The host doesn’t miss a beat. “Have they truly learnt from their mistakes, however? Humans fall into patterns; it’s difficult to envision a future that is drastically different from our present and past.”

 _God, what am I supposed to say again? What a pain in the ass._ “They’re the heads of their companies or otherwise in rather high positions; why sabotage their own business?”

“Destruction for revenge? Raising these companies to be the very top and then to destroy the idol industry? If you recall, all four members of Heavenbound were rather hard to read, had difficult personalities, were very well-crafted. Who are you to understand the behaviour of your seniors?”

“I wasn’t aware I was a guest in a conspiracy theory show,” Fushimi groans, tiredness seeping through every word. “Why don’t you ask them yourself? I’m not here to do the dirty work.”

 _Isn’t that what I’m doing right now?_ “You answered your own question. Kingdom Come, for better or for worse, is much more cohesive than Heavenbound was. Heavenbound was an experiment, a prototype; everything has to start somewhere. And do you have no real idea as to where we differ?

“Take this: two solo artists and two moderately-sized units from two different companies, promoting as a loose unit called Kingdom Come. We’ll come together for a mini-album here and there, do the tour, and open the flow of resources between HOMRA Ent. and Scepter 4.

“Then take Heavenbound: four separate companies involved, four solo artists, four very different ways of approaching things from a business, management, an everything standpoint. All soloists were ‘mysterious’ and unknown in their own ways, and much was hidden. Much more people were involved in Heavenbound than Kingdom Come, and idiocy loves company.”

The host interrupts, and Fushimi clenches his teeth, visibly irritated by the interruption. Fushimi is in for an unnecessarily long night. “However, there are sixteen people that make Kingdom Come. There were four people that made Heavenbound. How—”

 

(Click.)

 

There’s a few moments of silence where the camera is on Yata’s face. He’s looking somewhere up and left of him, finger playing with the blue stud on his right earlobe, before responding to the question.

“Yeah. Sometimes I _do_ kinda wish I was in a group instead of solo.” He laughs softly, but when his eyes open again, there’s no regret; only determination. “But I’ve told my manager this countless times, ‘cause he used to ask me in the beginning. ‘We could put you in OXIDIZE’, he’d say, because I’d been having fun hangin’ out with the guys before our debut.”

“Has it impacted your friendships with OXIDIZE?”

“Nah, those guys are still jerks. And I feel my life being threatened when I have to be in the same car as them.” He grins, eyes closing into crescents. “But there’s a reason I’m still on stage, and that reason only works if I’m solo.”

 

(The next channel is static.)

 

* * *

 

(Red light.)

 

“Yata-san, save your energy for the stage!” Kamamoto is fussing over the shorter ball of pure energy as he darts around backstage, smile stretched wide across his face. Yata’s got a few of the OXIDIZE boys with him, weaving between everyone trying to compose themselves beforehand.

This is their first live as Kingdom Come, all together. It’s a small one, performing their songs from the EP (bar Anna’s) and a few of their already-released songs, but it’s still the first time. And there are a _lot_ of people backstage making this happen.

It’s still kind of new, though. It always strikes Yata how _new_ all of this is; how, no matter who he runs to, no matter how busy or annoyed they seem, he still gets a short conversation, an answer, a little smile, _recognition_. People that enjoy his company. People that _genuinely_ (probably) enjoy his company.

His family consisting first of just OXIDIZE has expanded to include Alphabet Boys, and with Fushimi they’ve become Kingdom Come.

 _Ah. Saru._ It’s not Kingdom Come without Fushimi, for better or for worse. His eyes flit around instinctively to seek the tall mop of dark _(artfully messy)_ hair, and his eyebrows raise when he finds Fushimi leaning against the wall, already looking at him.

Fushimi holds eye contact for a split second, and then he turns away.

“Weirdo,” Akagi chuckles. Yata’s head whirls around and finds that his friend had been looking in the same direction.

For some reason, it feels embarrassing being caught.

 

(Green light.)

 

The crowd response is deafening, so much so that they almost miss the cue for their song. Fushimi never quite gets used to the big crowds that he draws in as a solo artist, let alone as Kingdom Come.

All the squabbles, all the arguments, all of the awkwardness evaporates when they both finally step on stage, together. There’s a sense of a shared goal with heavy risks now, and besides, their arguing is more like banter, now. On stage, they’re fine. Fushimi is professional. Yata is enthusiastic. (Yata keeps Fushimi from looking stuck up. Fushimi keeps Yata from looking disorganized.)

It’s a good thing Fushimi’s learnt how to deal with this from the very beginning, how to block it all out and mentally focus on just getting the job done.

It’s going alright, but all of a sudden, Fushimi is singing the chorus alone. Why is he singing alone? Yata’s supposed to be harmonizing. He finishes the end of the line regardless, and the crowd calls back at him with a fanchant, and one of their voices is amplified— _Yata himself_ is joining along with the fanchants for Fushimi, deviating from choreography at times to rile the crowd up.

“What t—What are you doing?” It slips out of his mouth before he knows it, and Yata only turns back with a grin on his face before joining in with the crowd again.

“Doing the fanchants, duh,” Yata states, his happiness radiating impossibly bright. As if it were obvious. As if this were something you would do for your stage partner, in the middle of the concert, cheering like a fan.

Out of disbelief, Fushimi closes his eyes and chuckles to himself, before picking the song up where he left it. When the chorus is over, Yata falls back into place next to him, and they move on full speed ahead.

 

(Yellow light—)

 

“Who the hell has a performance in the middle of nowhere on a _farm_ ,” Fushimi grumbles beside him. Yata is stuck between him with Hidaka on his other side, and there’s absolutely no chance for wiggle room.

“Cheer up, Fushimi!” If Eric’s the one telling him to cheer up, it just means nothing good. “It’s only for a day, and you’ll reconnect with nature, right?” He snorts.

“You’re all so goddamn loud.” Yata can feel Fushimi complain more than he hears it.

Kusanagi screams over the chaos. “Shit, Totsuka, watch out—”

“Whoops!” Totsuka hits a particularly rough patch of country road, and everyone is jostled around the car mercilessly. It lasts for what feels like an eternity before the road smoothens out as much as a dirt road can.

Everyone is quiet. Totsuka’s speed hadn’t changed during that entire ordeal, and Kusanagi gets ready to throw himself out of the car. “Hey, that’s the first time anything’s been able to shut you guys up!” He points off to a side road, marked as some sort of off-road path. “Should I—”

“ _No._ ” No one knows who says it, because _everyone’s_ said it.

“More like you guys are _no_ fun.” His smile hasn’t faltered a bit.

Yata’s feeling carsick, and he looks around Fushimi to stare outside the window about. Fushimi, whose glasses are slightly disturbed on his face, who looks more petulant than annoyed, who’s let his mask drop for just a moment before fixing it again. “Oi, Misaki, what’re you lookin’ at?”

“Huh?” Yata’s gaze was focused dead on Fushimi, and he _really_ wishes he had window seat so he could jump out right there, because his heart was beating fast enough to make him restless, like he could _run_ all the way to their destination without stopping—

“Misaki?” Fushimi sounds more curious than his normal state of pissed off, and it makes the feeling _worse._

“Feelin’ carsick.” He licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “That last road was shitty. Kinda need to look out the window.”

Whatever Fushimi was about to say is replaced quickly by a look of disgust. He leans as far back in his seat as he can. “Don’t throw up on me.”

“I’m trying _not_ to,” Yata bites back.

When the carsickness fades away, the sickening feeling remains. “Oi,” Fushimi mumbles under his breath, “you still look sick.”

“Yeah, because I’m still thinking about how _goddamn bad_ I feel.” The road is still rough, and it stirs everything inside Yata into an even bigger jumble. Fushimi wordlessly reaches through his bag and pulls out a dinosaur of an mp3 player, twisted headphone cables and all.

Yata feels a pang of nostalgia upon seeing the scuffed plastic; _Saruhiko really hasn’t changed at all,_ he thinks, with no particular emotion attached to it.

“At least distract yourself.” Fushimi holds it out as an offering, and Yata accepts.

 

* * *

 

(Play.)

 

“Oi, you fucker, don’t eat anything sweet before recordings.”

Yata notices that Fushimi’s eyeing the vending machines before Fushimi even realizes he’s doing so himself, and he scoffs. “I’m not _eating_.”

“No _drinking,_ either. Cola’s some bad shit for ya.” Yata sighs, but Fushimi doesn’t know if he likes the sound of this one, because it’s not as long-suffering. It sounds kinder. “Stop being a baby, I’m not gonna have you sound like shit if I’m on the same track as you. No sugar before recordings. Nothin’. Nada.”

Fushimi keeps walking. “Want me to die of thirst, Misaki?”

“I am holding a water bottle in my hands. Have you forgotten how to ask politely?” He waves the bottle in front of Fushimi and it looks refreshingly cold, drops landing on Fushimi’s arms.

“Do I need to?” Fushimi smirks.

Yata’s eyes close and something like a resigned smile falls on his face. “Suppose you’ve never had to.” He hands the bottle over to Fushimi, who reaches out for it triumphantly, before it’s snatched out of his grasp.

“You should probably start not being an asshole, though. You failed the first test.” Yata sprays drops of cold water onto Fushimi’s face. “Now, what’s the magic word?”

 

(Stop.)

 

The music cuts and the two of them hold their poses, breathing heavily. Only when the choreographer starts clapping proudly do they break character. “You know, when I was first working with you two, at the very beginning, I was kind of scared you would never be able to work together.”

Why does that comment strikes something cold into Yata’s chest?

 

(Rewind.)

 

“Hey, hey, Saru, watch this.” Fushimi grumbles as Yata pushes him out of the way of the fan, the only source of lukewarm air in the otherwise hot practice room. September decided to have one last kick of heat before surrendering to October, and it complicates things. Heat _always_ complicates things.

“Misaki, what the hell?” Fushimi lets himself lie on the floor, the disgusting floor that isn’t even as cold as it should be. Both of them are sluggish, and it’s almost as if they’re wading through water.

“No, no, just watch.” He holds the fan on either side and screams into it before falling over laughing. Fushimi watches him with a look of disbelief before laughing himself.

The heat loosens up their tension, because it gets too hot to argue, and it’s almost as if they were in an empty classroom again instead of in a practice room. “Were you trying to talk into the fan so you get that robot voice?”

“Yeah,” Yata manages to get out between his choking laughs. He pauses to breathe and breaks down into laughter again.

“You’re not supposed to _scream_ , you moron.” Yata’s laughter is contagious; Fushimi swings his arm across his chest, bringing him down to the floor by Fushimi’s side.

Everyone seems to laugh harder when they’re lying down, Fushimi finds. Everyone loosens up. Except for him, of course. Never himself.

 

(The rewind button wears itself out before finally falling apart.)

 

* * *

 

Everyone involved in the tours is booked well into October, but it loosens up ever so lightly by the end of the month. They have uncovered patches in their schedule that lets the cool autumn breeze through, and they find the time to breathe.

“Where the fuck did September go,” Eric whines. The last ensemble practice of the month is in the middle of its break period, and various members are getting themselves water or stretching around the room.

“Fuck, dude, you tell me.” Hidaka slumps down the wall next to where Eric is lying down, letting out a huge breath of air.

Fushimi drinks water in the corner, scrolling idly through his PDA. He glances at the time up in the corner, to see how much time is left before they start practice again. There’s less time left than he remembers, and he groans at the unforgiving passing of time.

 

 

(OCTOBER 2013)

 

* * *

 

_MARCH 2011_

_The same bridge, again and again. By now, their life has only become three places; the sea, the practice rooms, and their dorm. It should all be the same to Saruhiko, but Misaki has a way of making things different, new again._

_“Constructing a platform in the middle of the sea just seems like a waste of resources.” Saruhiko is smiling softly as he points out to the spot Misaki gestured to, just a second ago. “Why would you want to do a performance there?”_

_Misaki punches him in the arm and Saruhiko laughs. “Not in the sea, you little shit, I mean like… Across it! Out in the world, y’know, let’s just get outta Shizume, see some cool things.”_

_“Are you telling me that out of all of the plans you possibly could have had to travel the world, you picked ‘getting scouted as an idol and becoming famous’?”_

_“I wasn’t getting anywhere with school anyway, we probably wouldn’t have been able to go places if I tried to go through life the regular way. And this opportunity was right in front of us, why not take it?” Misaki’s smile is easy, and it wraps the truth he believes in a misleading package._

_Saruhiko picks up on his tone of voice and knocks shoulders with him. “Y’know, it was inevitable we’d both drop outta school, Misaki.”_

_“Eh? Saru, you’re so smart though, with the, with the things? You’d’ve totally be fine, shut up.” Misaki makes a typing action on the guardrails and the other boy makes a noise of annoyance._

_“That’s nothin’ big though. And I don’t care, school is boring.”_

_“I feel like you boys shouldn’t be having this conversation next to me,” Kusanagi comments, “I’m supposed to be helping you keep up with your education.” He laughs at the end of it, making all of the seriousness in his comment evaporate._

_“Can you make Saru keep up with his computer stuff, then?” Misaki leans back to look at where Kusanagi is standing, behind Saruhiko. “It’s a cool thing to have, right?”_

_“Only if Fushimi-kun wants to. Besides, let’s save the further education discussion until you at least make it to debut and your first stage.”_

_“Kusanagi-san, the entire world is already our stage!” Misaki laughs openly, as bright as the sun._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [praline](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gV4SXX289yM) / [lyrics](http://www.project-imas.com/wiki/Praline)
> 
> just finished a midterm  
> yikes! hope everyone is doing well


	11. Bloom

****NOVEMBER 2013

There’s a rally event scheduled on Fushimi’s birthday. It’s inevitable, and it’s nothing new to him, but he’s only ever had to put on a face for fans. With Kingdom Come, it should be the same, but Kingdom Come has _Yata_ and suddenly his strategy is less universal than he’d admit.

The rally is gathered to celebrate Fushimi and Fuse’s birthdays together, and so all of Kingdom Come joins in to perform a few songs, play the inane stage games, and give the fans their money’s worth.

Towards the end of the rally, Enomoto blocks Fushimi sight with his hands, being sure not to smudge his glasses, and the crowd starts cheering—it’s obvious what’s coming next, now. Some of Kingdom Come on stage start shushing the crowd and their screams only become a bit quieter before they get riled up again.

He’s glad that the upper half of his face is blocked, and he takes the time to make the irritation on his face a bit softer. (He does have a job to keep, after all. He can’t look _too_ annoyed.) Someone puts a party hat on his head and Enomoto’s hands stretch the elastic underneath his chin, revealing his vision.

The lights are bright, and he blinks rapidly. The first thing he remembers coming into his vision is his face, projected on a screen. He looks like a complete idiot. _I’m in appropriate company for that._

His eyes adjust further to the light and Akiyama’s just finished putting a small table in front of him; from Fushimi’s left, Yata comes in with the cake, and _of course_ it’s Yata, with the idiotic grin he’s worn for every single one of Fushimi’s birthdays.

(The very first time, it was nothing but the school roof, video games, the crisp November air, and the bright blue sky. They were twelve then and they are twenty now, and it feels like the entire world is watching them, but Saruhiko’s entire world right now is _Misaki_ , light from flickering candle flames painting impossible shadows across the contours of his face. Sunrise, sunset, under the eternally burning stage lights.)

He only knows it’s Eric that nudges him because the projector shows his pale blond hair from behind. “Fushimi, you’re staring.”

Everyone on stage erupts into laughter, nearly drowned by the crowd’s screaming, and Saruhiko turns around to glare at everyone. Doumyouji (where the hell did he come from?) pushes the space where his eyebrows crease upwards, turning his expression into one of shock. “No frowning, either, it’s a birthday!”

Akagi turns him around to face the audience again; Misaki’s finally placed the cake down on the table, but he’s turned to face the audience. (Saruhiko tries not to frown.)

“So, we all know Saru sucks at being happy, dunno how some of you are still his fans.” There’s a few rabid screeches among the general cheering. “So, I’m gonna speak for him!”

“I’m talking to Kusanagi-san and getting you fired,” Saruhiko interjects, but doesn't make further actions to protest.

“See, that’s just Saru for ya. He just doesn’t know how to say thanks, sometimes, so he ends up making fun of you instead. He’s just super awkward when people actually _like_ him,” Misaki emphasizes, pointedly looking at Saruhiko this time. “He might question you guys as fans sometimes, but he just doesn’t know what to say, ‘kay?” Everyone cheers. “So y’all gotta show your support and sing him a happy birthday!”

Singing Happy Birthday has never once gone well for anyone in the entire history of the human race, and Saruhiko is very well aware of that fact. “This is an awful idea.” It’s useless to say, because Misaki’s gone ahead and rallied everyone anyway.

“One, two, three! Happy birthday to you…”

Everyone on stage joins, the entire stadium echoes it back, and Misaki is glowing brightly on stage as he pretends to conduct the entire stadium. He really has everyone in the palm of his hands, Saruhiko realizes. _People are drawn to him too easily._

“Happy birthday, Saruhiko…” The roll of his tongue makes some giggles arise from the crowd. “Happy birthday to you!” Everyone claps and cheers and Saruhiko stands stiffly, at a loss. There’s impersonal attention, which is what he’s gotten for the majority of his short career, and there’s something like this: the fans singing for him, Yata Misaki glowing under the lights, and the stage populated by…

…By people he doesn’t hate _._ (He’s feeling generous today. He doesn’t hate them. Maybe.)

When the noise fades away, Saruhiko is still standing with a bewildered look on his face, towards the crowd, to Kingdom Come, to Misaki. “Fushimi, this is the part where you blow out the candles and make a wish,” Dewa helps, misinterpreting the look.

 _It’s almost over. Put up with it until the end._ “I’m aware of what the norms for birthday celebrations are,” Saruhiko snaps. Dewa only smacks him on the shoulder, laughing. Abandoning all hope, Saruhiko closes his eyes and blows out the candles, a not-quite wish forming in his mind.  _Wishes are for idiots. Gotta do everything yourself._

He leans up, complaint already on the tip of his tongue, when something wet and spongey smashes against his left cheek.

The crowd cheers are loud enough to almost have the same effect as silence; the sudden (noise) (silence) is so deafening that for a moment, the only sense he can fully register is sight.

Misaki is right in front of him now, right hand covered in cake and grinning up at him, the same grin that Saruhiko tentatively hopes is just because he’s _Saruhiko_.

Shock still plain on his face, Saruhiko takes his own scoop of the cake and grinds it slowly into Misaki’s left cheek and all over his mouth. Kingdom Come cheers again when he hides an uncontrollable laugh behind his left hand, eyes never leaving Misaki.

Misaki’s middle finger swipes across the corner of his mouth and across his bottom lip, and his tongue darts out to taste the cake now smeared across his finger. “Kinda wish I didn’t do that, this cake actually tastes good.” He hums in delight and tilts his head towards Saruhiko.

And this time, when the crowd cheers, Misaki’s got his eyes on him.

* * *

Fuse’s birthday is the day directly after his, and so Fushimi is now roped into having to celebrate his birthday. Literally. The string chafes his wrist and he feels the urge to destroy the table, or perhaps just die. That would solve the multitude of problems in his life.

Doumyouji hits the side of his glass with a knife to quiet everyone down with its clinking noise. He clears his throat, prim and proper.

“Stop pretending you’re sophisticated,” Hidaka jeers.

“Shut the fuck up. I’m trying to introduce the birthdays.” Doumyouji gets a lemon slice from a glass of water get thrown at him, and it sticks to his cheek. He clears his throat again, multiple times. “This month we have Fushimi-san and Fuse, two cold, rugged _men_ born in the cold month of November!”

Everyone looks at him expectantly. Nodding to himself in satisfaction, Doumyouji sits down and resumes eating. “Wait, was that it?” Yata squints up at him in disbelief.

“Uh, yeah.” He sits down and resumes eating.

“November, more like, Nofunber,” Hidaka mutters under his breath. Benzai elbows him in the gut.

“Was it necessary to tie me to the table?” Fushimi holds up his left wrist, tied to the short table leg. To his left is Yata, the one who tied him in the first place, and he remains at Fushimi’s side as a stubborn guardian of the string.

Fuse remains untied, unlike Saruhiko, and he eyes the crude display with amusement.

“Well, you kept trying to run away,” Akagi says easily, “and it was kinda lame. And Anna’s too busy with stuff to bring you in a humane manner, so this was the only thing we could think of.”

 _We_. It’s that word again. As far as he’s concerned, the only person he’d want at his birthday, if forced to choose by threat of death, is Misaki. Perhaps Awashima to organize. She’d drag along Kusanagi, probably, who’d bring Anna, who would then bring Totsuka. And if Awashima comes, Gotou’s bound to come with the Alphabet Boys, not _all_ of which he dislikes. And OXIDIZE would come along—

No parties. And yet, here everyone is (save for Anna), and they’re here for Fuse but they’re also here for _him_.

It’s a ridiculously moronic idea. Fushimi’s done nothing to warrant any sort of positive reaction from any of them, but they’re here under the impression that they know Fushimi on some sort of level, and it’s bizarre. Fushimi thinks back to yesterday, on stage, and it’s the difference between impersonal attention and something like _this_ , where everyone’s fooled themselves into thinking they understand him on some sort of level.

It’s definitely because the minialbum, since he posed with that knife and everyone thought it was hilarious. As far as Fushimi’s concerned, he hasn’t changed his manner one bit; he remains reserved in practices and his schedule clashes with everyone’s outside of practices. But all of them—OXIDIZE and Alphabet Boys and the rest of the staff—are seeing his attitude as something endearing rather than him just being a complete asshole. (Like someone _else_ he knows.)

They’re not Fushimi’s fans, but in function they’re the same; making assumptions based on the character he’s crafted, they throw him a birthday party.

It’s completely idiotic. It really is. They _tied him down to the table_. Did they need him around that badly? The chatter’s already begun around him, plates of food slowly coming in, and Fushimi raises his voice as a last complaint. “Can’t you just do what the fans do and celebrate my birthday by making a blog post? Do I _have_ to be here?”

“You didn’t seem that cranky yesterday on stage with the cake.” Akagi’s tone is very matter-of-fact, dripping with fake innocence. Fushimi feels his lip want to curl in disgust. “In fact, you almost looked like you were _enjoying_ yourself. I didn’t know that was possible, ‘Shimi!”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“At least stay for Fuse, y’know, it _is_ his actual birthday.” At Enomoto’s words, Fuse raises his hands in slight protest as if to say _no, don’t stop him, we know what Fushimi Saruhiko is like, please just allow him to leave._

Fushimi catches the action out of the corner of his eye. “I’m very aware.” He takes satisfaction in tugging on the string around his wrist and jostling everyone’s drinks a little bit.

The topic gets dropped after that because the rest of the food flies in, and everyone’s attention switches on a dime. Fushimi blinks and he’s got a plate in front of him; Fuse and Yata apparently have some unspoken pact about his diet, because Yata places the meat on top of the rice that Fuse quickly scoops onto his plate.

They both look at him expectantly. “Fushimi-san, you have to eat, or it’ll weigh on my mind this entire celebration that you starved,” Fuse says, echoing Yata’s words from months ago.

The blue still glittering in Yata’s ear is a more solid contradiction of the words he says next than the grin on his face. “Yeah, you nearly ruined _mine_ , you piece of shit.” He opens his mouth to retort and Yata shoves food from his plate straight into his mouth.

Saruhiko gags around the chopsticks.

He feeds himself after that, for the sake of not dying by someone else’s hands. It also draws less attention to him, and Fuse and Misaki shift their attention to the rest around the table eventually. And as a plus, the food isn’t bad, and it’s something to focus on so no one bothers him while he looks intently down at his plate.

Of course, the Ceremonial Sacrifice of the Birthday Boys to the Anko Goddess is inevitable, and Saruhiko physically cannot escape. While Fuse feigns sudden diarrhea, running to the bathroom after every few bites, Saruhiko becomes the only boy on the altar, bleeding red bean paste from every crevice.

He finishes every last bite. “Fuse’s bowel condition seems to be contagious.” Saruhiko stands up to make his way to the bathroom and nearly flips the table. He curses; he forgot he was tied to this damn thing.

Kamo sighs. “Alright, someone assist this man.” Kamo sighs. He shows mercy on the birthday boys, allowing them to escape their duty to Ankoshima-sama. Saruhiko sends a purposeful look to Misaki, who sends him a mocking look of pity before untying him.

“Yata, please follow him.” That’s _Kamo’s_ voice, _still talking_ , and Saruhiko looks at him with absolute betrayal.

“Kamo, I trusted you to be a man of logic.” No one remains on his side. He has been thoroughly betrayed by every single person at this table, he’s sure.

“And I trust my logic to tell you that you might run away.” Doumyouji pats Kamo on the back in agreement. Somewhere among the table, various people pointedly look away or bury their heads on the table to hide their laughter.

Misaki stands up before he does and tugs him up. “Jesus, why is Kingdom Come a bunch of kinky shits?” he grumbles, and Eric ( _it always fucking is,_ Fushimi thinks) pipes up. “You’re the one that tied him up in the first place.”

Before Misaki can get too riled up, Saruhiko pulls him out of the room in the direction of the bathroom. He doesn’t look back to see who whistles at them.

It’s kind of entertaining, though, how even when Misaki storms ahead of Saruhiko and starts dragging him, he’s still red-faced and absolutely resistant. It makes Saruhiko almost calmer; he smirks at every single one of the servers that Misaki avoids eye contact with, _just because_.

“Misaki, I’m not gonna leave if you let go. Unless you enjoy dragging me around like this?” Saruhiko says, poking fun at him. He imagines Misaki’s face is as red as the ribbon he holds as he stutters out, “Shut the fuck up, you kinky freak, I have a job and I’m gonna do it.”

The bathroom is empty, thankfully, and Misaki yanks him inside out of impatience.

“Are you holding onto that while I take a piss, or are you gonna try and mess with my aim?” Saruhiko goads, voice as smooth as silk. It’s really too easy to rile Misaki up like this, to have him dedicate all of this emotional energy to Saruhiko and Saruhiko alone. Misaki puts every ounce of his being into the moment, and when Misaki isn’t aiming it out to thousands of people in a crowd, it’s overwhelming. A smile forms on his face before Saruhiko’s knows it.

“Why the fuck are you smiling, you creepy ass—what— _stop_ , Saru!” Misaki yanks his left hand away from his pants with the string to stop the motion. Saruhiko actually lets out a laugh at this, watching as the emotions _embarrassment, irritation,_ and _something else_ cycle over Misaki’s face over and over.

“Are you gonna aim _for_ me, then? You do have control over my hand, presently.” Saruhiko opens his hands as if to invite Misaki.

He swears he sees Misaki shake in pure embarrassment, and it’s all Saruhiko’s ever asked for and more. “No, no, no no _no no no_ , fuck you. Get in here.” Misaki pulls them both into the largest stall and the door swings shut behind them.

“Ah, I see, you want a bit more privacy with me. So pushy, Misaki. Could’ve just said so.” Saruhiko practically doesn’t have to do anything, because Misaki is doing all the work for him. He reaches for his zipper again. “In that case—”

Misaki screeches. “No, stop,” he elaborates, “no, no no, no _what the fuck_ , you’re supposed to stay in here, and then I stand right outside the door, and you just _go_.”

Saruhiko is about to respond when the main door to the bathroom creaks. Their stall door still hangs half open and he’s grateful for the fact that it swings inwards into the stall; he reaches over Misaki with his left hand and slams the door closed, sliding his hand down to the lock and turning it. It’s kind of a weird situation, and Saruhiko thinks that the last thing either of them need is a scandal.

(Or, at least, it’s the last think Misaki needs. Saruhiko may or may not welcome that attention on the two of them as a _thing_ with open arms.)

He nudges Misaki’s feet so neither of theirs are visible in the gap underneath the door, and they wait. Saruhiko slides his left hand up to a more comfortable position up the door, just in case, and all of a sudden he’s hyperaware of Misaki’s warm breathing against his right shoulder.

Saruhiko looks down, against his better judgement.

From how he’s got his left arm against the door, Misaki’s right is half-raised and dangling against the stall behind him ( _fuck_ , they’re still tied together). His other hand is jammed in his pocket and looking _away_ , just _anywhere away_ from Saruhiko. His face is bright red and he’s blinking a million times a second.

It’s not like he’s unable to move around; the stall door is already locked, and Saruhiko’s right hand isn’t trapping him on the other side. But Misaki is frozen and—the expression on his face is new. It’s not one that’s ever been directed towards him. He’s seen a lot of Misaki’s embarrassed faces over time, but this one is rare, buried partly in the past; it makes appearances a few times on talk shows, when hosts would tease him specifically about some of the more popular female artists around his age.

Saruhiko raises his eyebrows at him. It’s a minute change, but he can feel Misaki’s breath hitch. _It’s nothing. It’s not you, it’s the situation, because Misaki is an enormous virgin._

The person that enters the men’s bathroom leaves and Misaki lets out a sigh. His breath is warm, and it fans warm over Saruhiko’s collarbones, but the relief is short lived when the door swings open just a second later with a new set of footsteps.

Saruhiko clamps a hand over Misaki’s mouth, already sensing the groan of frustration that wants to tear itself from the other’s throat. His face is warm, probably burning with embarrassment, and while the person washes their hands, Saruhiko leans in to whisper: _stop breathing so loudly._

He feels Misaki shake underneath him with the effort of taking deeper breaths through his nose, and then _finally_ Misaki looks up at him.

His eyes are wide with shock and pure embarrassment. Saruhiko can feel the flood of warmth, the second wave of embarrassment on Misaki’s cheek, and his ears are bright red.

Saruhiko knows he doesn’t even have to push the teasing. He’s known this the entire night. The teasing is only (mostly) (sometimes) for show, to really push him and Misaki as _a thing_ so, come the concert, no one has _any_ doubts who Saruhiko’s song is about.

He doesn’t need to push it now, he really doesn’t. But he’ll say it for the rest of his life: Misaki draws him in, like a moth to a flame, and right now Saruhiko is ready to burn up.

The person in the bathroom enters the stall farthest away from them. Saruhiko leans his head next to Misaki’s against the wall and breathes as quietly as he can. He catches the glitter of the single blue earring on Misaki’s right ear, right below him, and he swallows.

Removing his right hand from Misaki’s mouth, he lifts his own head again to spare a glance down at Misaki. His lips are red. His tongue darts out to wet them and when Saruhiko looks up again, Misaki’s staring right at him.

There’s a moment.

Saruhiko knows it’s a moment. It’s in this shitty ass restroom stall, while someone’s six feet away from them while they want to be six feet under, but Saruhiko only wants to die after he’s committed this to memory for the afterlife.

 _Concert,_ Saruhiko urges himself, _save it for the concert. The solo, in front of thousands of people, over four days, and Misaki won’t forget that, might forget this._ (As long as he’s lying, he might as well make it entertaining.) _This situation is too ambiguous._ (That’s a good one to look back at and laugh.) _Misaki looks like he’d want to do something with me, right now, in this moment._ (Absolutely hilarious.)

They’ve always been day and night, two sides of the same coin, filling in where the other can’t reach. Misaki’s eyes widen in surprise as Saruhiko’s are half-lidded, Misaki breathes out when Saruhiko breathes in, Misaki tilts his head ever so slightly to his left and Saruhiko wants to collapse into him in that very instant.

Saruhiko feels every syllable of his name from Misaki’s lips, warm and inviting, and Misaki’s free hand is subconsciously reaching out to his hip, and Saruhiko feels like he’s on fire before they’re even actually _touching_ , and then the person in the stall throws up spectacularly.

Saruhiko squeezes his eyes shut in frustration. Misaki whips his head back so frantically that it slams loudly against the stall door. They hold the position for the next eternity while the person flushes, washes his hands, and walks back out.

With the slam of the door, Saruhiko unlocks the stall and Misaki immediately darts out.

 _This’ll only build up to the concert,_ he thinks, locking the door again. _This’ll only build up to the concert._ He bites back disappointment and instead turns it on himself, cursing himself for being too sentimental, too affected, too irrational so as to stray from the original plan.

Saruhiko tests the slack of the ribbon around his wrist, just enough for him to be able to actually piss (like he said he would). “What the fuck was that,” Misaki states more than asks, embarrassment still dripping from his voice. “You—you’re just—like, pants unbuttoned for no fuckin’ reason, and trapping me inside a goddamn bathroom stall and, and—why? What the fuck, I’m erasing this past five minutes from my memory, fuck you Saruhiko, just—” Misaki punches the stall door, and Saruhiko lets out a laugh.

 _Easy territory. Making fun of each other. See, Misaki? Forgotten already._ “Wow, you’ve degenerated as a virgin so intensely that apparently anyone can send you into a fit of stutters, now.”

“Shut the fuck up! Your fly was open the entire fucking time, too,” Misaki says, punctuating the sentence with another kick to the stall.

“Wasn’t aware you were such a keen observer, Misaki.” Saruhiko presses on the toilet lever with his foot, filling a silence he didn’t expect.

When he opens the stall again, Misaki is looking away, with an unreadable expression. In components, it’s easy: the way he frowns is irritation and frustration, the scrunch of his nose is concentration, the curl of his lip is hesitance. Saruhiko knows every single one of these, but together it’s something uneasy.

Misaki doesn’t say anything, so Saruhiko silently washes his hands. The tension in the air is shifting to something more awkward, and without saying a word Saruhiko turns to exit the bathroom.

When he hears footsteps following behind him, Saruhiko gets impulsive. He turns around to face his friend again and feels the stud between his thumb and forefinger, mimicking Misaki’s nervous habit.

The blue stud. Saruhiko’s smirk widens, Misaki’s ears turn red shortly before the rest of his face follows suit. His hand gets swatted away forcefully and Misaki is gone in the blink of an eye, like a storm passing through.

Once he’s gone, Saruhiko steps outside of the restaurant and rubs a hand over his face, willing the frigid air to cool him down, already.

* * *

“Oi, where’s Fushimi? You had one job, dude.”

Misaki walks in without a word, red faced, and sits violently on the ground. He doesn’t even want to figure out who’s said it, and everyone’s attention is kinda short, anyway. Those in the room that are teetering on the edge of sobriety have pity for the cushion he’s practically destroyed on impact with his ass, and those who have passed the line from intoxicated to drunk don’t particularly care.

Kusanagi passes him a drink.

“What the fuck was that,” he mumbles to himself.

Misaki remembers Fushimi teasing him with _shitty embarrassing jokes_ in the bathroom and—and all the time, really, how he always kept his cool whenever turning things back onto Misaki. It’s like he’s never affected by anything that affects Misaki to the core, and it drives him up the fucking wall.

But there—the weird shit, in the stall. The air between them was so fucking thick you could cut it with a knife, or burn through it with _your fucking stomach acid, fuck your random dude who threw up_. For some reason. The really weird moment between him and Saruhiko broke because of the barfing son of a bitch, but—shouldn’t that have been a good thing?

 _Saruhiko was so close._ Misaki rubs both of his eyes in frustration and looks up to the ceiling, groaning, before falling all the way backwards. Kusanagi spares him a glance and he covers his face with his arms.

The thing is, that situation was completely avoidable. Yeah, they were in a bathroom stall together, but Misaki could have easily just let go of the fucking ribbon and walked out and pretended nothing was wrong while Saruhiko would close the door and wait for the other person to leave before making any noise. It was that easy.

But Misaki had held onto that ribbon like a lifeline and, well. Saruhiko wasn’t helping. He was encouraging it, almost…

 _He was so close, I could have—_ bad. That’s bad. They would have—well, _kissed_ , for real, and then what? They can’t do anything _more_ , right? They can’t do normal—normal _dating_ things, like go on dates or whatever. Paparazzi would be up their ass immediately. It just wasn’t a viable option.

And besides. It's not wrong to compliment your friends on their appearance. Nothing wrong with thinking your best friend is hot. That's a compliment. And it's true. Nothing wrong with wanting to kiss your best friend. Absolutely nothing. If someone else had a best friend and it was Saruhiko, _they’d_ want to kiss him too.

Maybe.

Actually, Saruhiko’s a bit of an asshole, so maybe not.

And—and besides, Misaki doesn’t want to break what’s between them, because the discomfort wasn’t really discomfort all the way, it was just new and unexpected and okay maybe he’s a little _fond_ of Saruhiko. So maybe it’s not that important of a conversation, and Misaki is just overreacting.

It’s kind of important though: Misaki’s starting to make a distinction. There’s Fushimi (Saruhiko), Scepter 4’s golden boy, their ice cold prince, the _stupid stage Fushimi_ that he hates so much when aimed right at him. And then there’s Saruhiko, the stupid Saruhiko that—the, the fucking Saruhiko.

His bad word choice immediately becomes obvious when heat coils around his body and he feels himself blush. No, Misaki doesn’t want to think about this _at all_.

He rolls over onto his side in frustration. Kusanagi gives him a comforting pat on his side, and when Saruhiko returns from outside, no one comments on either of them.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [bloom](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K64mb5KUhhs) / [lyrics](http://www.kpoplyrics.net/gain-bloom-lyrics-english-romanized.html). i love this song so much. please listen to it. read it
> 
> very saruhiko-centric this chapter! :o early birthday present? i didn't mean to line it up like that. life works mysteriously, i guess.


	12. Behind Moon

Practices had dwindled down in December to make room for the constant holiday-related appearances for everyone, but come January, they’re back in full force. Entire concert rehearsals start as early as they are allowed. One of the practice days turns into a nearly full-day ordeal, planning the timing and figuring out what is possible and what isn’t.

Time passes by in the blink of an eye, the speed at which they move closer to concert accelerating at a terrifying pace. They say time flies when you’re having fun, after all.

It’s February before anyone realizes.

* * *

FEBRUARY 2014

They finally give themselves room to breathe a week and a half before the concert. Their transitions get cleaner, the order of the setlist is ingrained into memory, and there’s no room to celebrate the February birthdays once the tour kicks in. The February birthdays happen to be those of the group managers, Totsuka and Gotou, and so everyone decides to double it as a “Thank You For Consistently Dealing With Our Shit” party.

Funnily enough, both members of the Alphabet Boys and members of OXIDIZE have an appearance on the thirteenth; it’s a Friday, it’s Totsuka’s birthday, and it all seems _too_ perfect. Making the distraction plan is effortless because of the impeccable timing, but the actual plan itself needs more consideration; they’ve gathered secretly after hours to discuss. Gotou is more reserved about celebrations, while Totsuka is keen on them, so they decide on just a dinner out with everyone.

Kusanagi calls up Suoh once they’ve decided on the location, at almost midnight. “Mikoto, can you try to get us the bar that’s nearby HOMRA Entertainment, but kind of outta the way? Yeah, the one tucked in between all the other smaller shops. Forgot what it was called.” Kusanagi yawns. “Yeah, tomorrow night, Totsuka’s actual birthday. See if there’s a time we can get there so we don’t disrupt everyone. Yeah, just give them my number.”

He hangs up, turns around to the rest of them, and shrugs. “Guess we’ve got ourselves a place.”

Thirty minutes later, when everyone’s gone, Suoh calls back. “They have multiple floors for things like these. You’ve got the entire second floor all night.”

Kusanagi sighs in relief. “Thanks, Mikoto.”

Suoh grunts and hangs up.

* * *

Everyone’s already up in the second room when Totsuka _finally_ shows up. “Happy birthday!” everyone says, already through mouthfuls of appetizers. Suoh, in the corner, waves a hand lazily. There’s a banner of store-bought glitter letters that spell _TOTSUKA-SAN & GOTOU-SAN, HAPPY B-DAY!_

“Ah, Gotou-san, it’s your birthday too?”

With a faint smile on his face, the calmest of the managers raises a glass. “In six days, but you know how birthdays here go.”

“Happy birthday to you as well, Gotou-san.” Totsuka and the members of OXIDIZE with him start chucking off their boots and sitting on the floor cushions.

“Oh, fuck, it’s so warm.” Dewa lies on his back, wiggling his fingers. “Never let Chitose fucking decide anything ever again.”

“How _did_ you guys get Totsuka-san here?” Yata’s voice pipes up from the crowd, and from the sounds of it, he’s still eating.

“ _Chitose’s_ great fucking idea was to pop the tire _and_ the spare.” Dewa picks a pillow off the ground and chucks it full force at where he thinks Chitose is. The room erupts in laughter, the table shaking from people smacking their hands on it in disbelief.

“Fuckin’ laugh it up. He popped the spare earlier today, but he James Bonded some shit to pop the tire when we were close to HOMRA Ent., but in a secluded street—fuck, I don’t know, my hand hurts, my fingers are numb, we had to push the van here.”

“Look, it was _genius!_ ” Chitose tries in vain to defend himself. “We pass by this bar every day, and so if we killed the van right before it, we could drag him in with ‘Totsuka-san, this sucks, let’s drink it away’!”

“ _We have to push the van all the way back to HOMRA Ent._ I hope you’re aware of that _._ ” Dewa cuts the conversation there. “How did you guys get Gotou-san here?”

“We let Akiyama drive because we dragged Gotou-san into our gameshow and tired him out.” Doumyouji throws up a peace sign.

“Well, isn’t that convenient.” Dewa rolls over and finally sits up, planting himself on a pillow. “Let’s eat, I’m fuckin’ hungry.”

Everyone cheers and the room begins to spin. There is constant movement everywhere in the room; laughter, conversations, animated chattering makes sure that silence never finds a place to settle.

Fushimi is pinned between a blur of warmth and hazy red; at some point when he left the corner to grab food, someone’s kept him there, and he moves with the people on either side of him.

The room is loud, only getting louder, and the food on the tables in front of them start to dwindle. Fushimi decides he’s had enough, having toughed through it for Totsuka, and he tries to get up in the least intrusive way possible.

As it turns out, it’s almost impossible. Everyone is sitting on the ground and Fushimi is tall when he stands. “Oh? Fushimi-kun?” It’s Totsuka that addresses him first, from right next to him; he’s probably the reason Fushimi had stayed so long in the crowd anyway.

“Goin’ outside,” he mumbles. “’s too hot in here.”

“Ah, you don’t want to be in the picture?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then can you take it for us?” Totsuka holds out his phone open to the in camera and Fushimi sighs.

“I can, but will I?” Even with that being said, he takes Totsuka’s camera and walks over to the corner by the exit.

Everyone looks at him and grins, poses, or just keeps eating until the last possible moment. Fushimi frowns as he watches Yata’s smiling face jolt in and out of the frame, body shaking with laughter as those around them pose.

He presses the button before everyone can finish settling. He doesn’t know what comes over him as he opens up twitter and captions it for Totsuka.

_It’s Fushimi Saruhiko._

_There are birthdays today._

_Somewhere among these idiots, they’ve managed to somehow survive another year._

He throws the phone back to Totsuka and slips on his boots. “It’s done.”

Half of the room groans in protest, the half that wasn’t ready for their picture to be taken. Fushimi waves a hand over his shoulder, uncaring, and takes the stairs down to the side door.

* * *

A storm’s started to blow in since they arrived, and the wind only blows stronger between the two brick buildings. Still, it’s too late for Fushimi to go back upstairs to grab his coat—his leaving caused a scene, and he didn’t want to return so soon.

There’s nowhere to stand and nothing to do, but at least there is no one to watch him. Fushimi leans against the brick wall and watches his breath rise in the air.

The side door reopens and Fushimi instinctively tries to press himself up against the brick so as not to draw attention to himself. But it’s a familiar voice that rings out. “Oi, Saru, you forgot your coat,” Yata says, remnants of his conversations inside still within the smile on his face.

“So did you.” Yata is still in a thin shirt with a light cardigan over top.

“I’m not planning to be out here for long. Just long enough to get your coat for you, because you’re awful with cold. Don’t even hide it.”

Fushimi doesn’t respond because he gets his own coat thrown at his face. He puts it on grudgingly and doesn’t make eye contact. “You should go back inside, Misaki.”

Yata reaches for the doorknob, but instead decides to sit down on the doorstep, brushing away snow. “Nah, it’s been a while since it was just two of us with nothing to do, right?”

“We’ve had lots of time together. We’ve been together on this for over a year.”

“That’s different though. Right now, it’s just, like… _us_ ,” Yata finishes lamely.

Snow has a way of absorbing sound. It’s just the two of them, sitting in silence, with the sounds of the February crowd from the streets and the laughter of the people inside. Separated from everyone, it feels like just the two of them looking out at the sea, or going to festivals, or spending time in empty classrooms.

It’s a lot colder than it is in his memories, though. “Shit, I’m cold.” Misaki breathes quickly through his teeth.

Saruhiko silently brushes the snow off the step next to Misaki and takes off his coat, draping it around the two of them. “Whose fault is that?”

“Yours, you fuck, I _had_ to go outside and give you your coat.”

“Just like you _had_ to stay out here with me?”

“You’re ruining the moment.”

Moments like this have been bountiful this year, not at all like their earlier days before becoming idols. Here on the cold concrete step, it’s comfortable again; they’re in a strange in-between, their carefree selves turning into something more self-aware, but it’s not entirely unwanted.

The self-awareness part of them is the elephant in the room. They’ve struck a shaky balance between them, neither of them wanting to be the one to topple it over. But Misaki’s waited too long, has enough moments like this in store, so he bites the bullet.

“Saruhiko.”

His friend hums in response.

“Why did—how come you went to Scepter 4? Well, I mean—why are you still an idol?” It’s something he’s tried to ignore, but Saruhiko’s birthday pushed the urgency in Misaki’s mind closer to _highest importance_.

Misaki thinks he feels Saruhiko deflate slightly next to him as he lets out a sigh. “Where did this come from, Misaki?”

He means to say _never mind_ , but he keeps going instead. “I was just thinking. I—I got scouted that day, and I really thought becoming an idol would get us the fuck out of school, so we could do cooler things, right?”

Saruhiko’s warmer tone completely evaporates. “Why would I debut with you in a place like HOMRA Ent.?” Misaki _knows_ he’s trying to derail the conversation, but he’s more determined now than any time before to keep pushing.

“Because you _said_ you would, remember?”

“Misaki, that’s childish of you, isn’t it?” There is no familiarity in Saruhiko’s tone anymore, and his fists clench as Saruhiko continues. “Did you really think we could do this, that we’d be capable of this? That it would be as easy as learning a song and a dance and then we’d be _free?”_

“I didn’t think it’d be easy, but I knew we’d be able to do it!” Suddenly full of energy, he stands up and starts pacing. “Look, we’re doing fine on our own—I mean, you’re the best soloist right now for Scepter 4, and it’s only _Anna_ beating me in solo sales, but—but it’s _Anna_. Saruhiko, we could have done this.”

Saruhiko clicks his tongue, and Misaki feels the urge to punch him in the face. “Do you ever think that _being alone_ contributes to how we’re doing?”

That comment is the final straw. Everything Misaki’s been holding back about _him_ being the reason for Saruhiko all falls apart, and he strains his voice with the effort of responding. “Yeah, I think about that _every fucking day_ ! When I look at all our fucking old photos, all I can think about is how you left me, and then I remember how fucking bad I was, but you learnt everything so quickly, and then I think that you had some clumsy piece of shit like _me_ to debut with!”

Misaki can feel his eyes stinging, but Saruhiko’s finally looking up at him, and he takes a sick satisfaction in the way his face has completely dropped its mask, leaving nothing but pure shock. He pushes forward. “And this entire time, I thought we were getting _okay_ again, and I _avoided_ asking you why you left because I didn’t wanna ruin anything, but it’s fine, because you ruined it for me anyway, because you’re all over me one day and then ignoring me the next, and it’s driving me fucking _insane!”_

Snow has a way of absorbing sound. Even then, Misaki’s words are cacophonous in Saruhiko’s mind. He notes the way Misaki’s face has morphed into a frown, desperate and pleading and _angry_ —the last of which he was expecting, but not to this intensity.

He was the one to break Misaki down to what he sees in front of him; there’s probably few people that can make Misaki look at them the way he looks at Saruhiko now. It turns sharply into the realm of _uncomfortable_ , and a humourless laugh chokes its way out of his throat.

“No,” is the first word that comes out of Saruhiko’s mouth. It starts all the sentences he wishes he could say instead: _No, you’re not a piece of shit, you might be clumsy, but it’s endearing. No, you shone brighter than I did, and I panicked that you’d forget about me. No, I didn’t leave you because I thought you were a bad partner—you were good, Misaki, you were too good for me._

“’No’ _what_?” Saruhiko’s eyes are wide, almost _fearful_ , and he’s biting his lip and looking away. Misaki feels impatient. “ _Saru!”_

“It’s not—you’re not—” Saruhiko struggles helplessly, looking anywhere but the boy in front of him.

“What, cat got your tongue? Where’d all your snark go, you piece of shit?” Saruhiko knows Misaki keeps talking big to delay the explosion (because he knows he’s got _more_ running under the surface), but he can hear his voice choke up already.

He finally thinks after all this time that no, he never wanted Misaki to be like this because of him, that he wanted to keep the smile but not cause the pain. “No, I didn’t—I didn’t want it to be like this.”

“Then what the fuck did you want it to be? Clearly, you wanted to break promises and leave me in the fucking dust—”

“You were going to leave me first,” Saruhiko says defensively. “I was trying to—”

“What in fucking hell makes you think I’d ever leave you? We were going to do this _together!_ How many fucking times do I have to tell you?”

“You bring in too much attention, you always do, and you would have—”

“That’s part of our job description, you _fucking moron!_  How are we supposed to be successful if we can’t make people our fans?” Misaki is getting more frustrated by the second; Saruhiko is cracking, but he’s still desperately holding on to _something_. Something Saruhiko doesn’t want to talk about, probably the reasoning behind every single one of his actions.

It’s a childish move, but as Saruhiko opens his mouth to speak Misaki kicks a pile of snow into his face. He grabs Saruhiko by the collar, forcing him to stand up. “Saruhiko, why are you trying _so hard_ to avoid every single question? What is the fucking reason you’re avoiding this so hard?”

“If you haven’t got it figured it out by now, _Misaki_ , then it’s not worth telling you!” Saruhiko rarely raises his voice like this, a mix of frustration and desperation and anger all rolled into one. The mocking smile tries to stick to his face, and it’s failing, and Misaki wants to wipe it away completely.

“What kind of bullshit is that?” He throws Saruhiko away from him; he slips on the snow and falls into a snowbank. Misaki rushes to him again, one hand holding his collar and the other continuously picking up snow.

“Didn’t you already know from the first time you pulled this ‘ _you should already know_ ’ bullshit?” Misaki shoves snow into Saruhiko’s face, who coughs and leans his head away from him. “I don’t fucking understand _anything_!” He grinds another handful over Saruhiko’s face. “Sorry I’m not as smart as you are and can’t guess when you’re just being _you_ ,” Misaki pauses, balling up snow and pelting it at Saruhiko’s cheek, “or if I’m doing something that pisses you off!” Misaki pushes Saruhiko further into the snowbank.

While Saruhiko tries to breathe, he takes another handful of snow and slaps it across his mouth, desperately wanting to drown the twisted smile. When he lifts his hand again, he sees light streaks of red against Saruhiko’s cheek, and Misaki numbly registers he’s dragged his nails across the other’s skin. (A ghost of the same action travels across his face, but he remembers Saruhiko’s fingers being light, being kind.)

Misaki breathes heavily, from the adrenaline and the energy and how high-strung he is. He loosens his grip slowly on Saruhiko’s collar but otherwise doesn’t remove his hands. “Saruhiko, I really just—I really just can’t see these things sometimes,” he says, defeated. His own words bring up an old memory, and Misaki chokes it out, not even trying to hide it anymore. “I know I said my eyesight was perfect compared to your shitty glasses-wearing face, but I really just don’t fuckin’ know sometimes.

“I really thought we were enjoying ourselves.”

Saruhiko is still looking away from him, and Misaki finds himself looking away too.

“You always—in practices, y’know? Even when I messed up or you did, we’d just make fun of each other, laugh it off. You smiled in a lot of the photos Totsuka took of us,” he says shakily, “I really thought you were cool with this. This whole thing. And even now, I thought we were cool, even though we hadn’t talked about anything.

“And, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.” Misaki feels his throat tighten up, and he takes a few deep breaths. “I thought we were, like, best friends again. Y’know? We were okay for the practices, and we were okay during performances, and during our birthdays—” He swallows, and leaves the sentence hanging in the air, the continuation of which is agonizingly close to breaking them both down into something unfamiliar.

He only looks back at Saruhiko when he starts shifting underneath his grip. He’s red from the cold everywhere, from the back of his hands as he brushes snow away to the face he reveals once the snow is gone. Saruhiko’s hangs slightly open for a second before he finally speaks. “There’s only one common factor in all of that—”

“No riddles, Saruhiko, please?” Misaki’s voice softens out of tiredness. He finally uncurls his fingers from around Saruhiko’s collar and crouches in front of the snowbank, not facing him.

Only their breathing fills the silence between them. The wind whistles by the gap between the two buildings, and it sounds almost like a weary sigh. Misaki finally hears a shift in the snow; Saruhiko’s head turns to look up at the night sky, and he sighs, heavy as the winter air. “Back then, I still had Misaki by my side.”

Misaki absorbs his words, eyes widening in surprise. “’Still’? But you never lost me.”

The words Saruhiko says earlier he repeats now, and Misaki finds a new understanding in them. “You shine so bright, Misaki. People are drawn to you. You draw yourself to people. You’re too brilliant.” Their past keeps getting dragged back up to the surface, all the ugly things floating among the sea. He hears Saruhiko chuckle. “Useless.”

Misaki gets the feeling that’s aimed more towards Saruhiko himself.

The side door flings open. A blast of warm air greets them alongside Kusanagi, who frowns almost immediately behind his glasses. “Boys, what’s going on?”

Misaki turns to him with mouth hanging open and a sadness in his eyes. “Kusanagi-san,” he responds, voice barely above a whisper.

Saruhiko gets up sluggishly from the snowbank, brushing off the remnants of snow from his face and hair. He walks by Misaki and tries to walk past Kusanagi, who stops him.

“Are you gonna tell me what happened?” his former manager is giving him that look again, but he’s exhausted all of his expression in this past conversation, and he doesn’t even bother to try and sound annoyed.

“No.”

Kusanagi lets go of his shoulder, brushing a bit of snow off the front of his coat. “Then I hope you’ll do so for Seri-chan. At least try not to walk home.”

Fushimi looks away and lets his footsteps crunch through the snow, walking out the side alleyway of the restaurant and onto main streets. When his figure disappears, Yata falls back to sit on the snowbank.

Kusanagi sighs and follows suit. “Wanna talk about it, Yata-chan?”

They watch snowflakes fall, illuminated by the harsh yellow of the streetlamps. “…Can we do it somewhere warm and not in the snow?”

“Sounds good to me,” he chuckles. “Come on, let’s get up.”

 

* * *

Saruhiko calls Awashima out to the exit of the restaurant, and she comes. “Fushimi, I’m inside, you could just come—”

His face is red and he doesn’t make eye contact with her. “Let’s leave.”

Saruhiko never outright asks to leave; he complains and complains, but he’ll sit in the corner as the night progresses. He sounds as though he’s trying to keep his voice in the same drawling tone, but Awashima can hear the way his throat tightens around his words just slightly. It’s unnatural, and it’s nothing good.

“Alright. My belongings are still inside. I’ll collect them and we can drive back to Scepter 4.” Saruhiko gives no indication that he’s heard her, and she turns back inside.

Kusanagi enters from the side door as she enters through the front; both Yata and Fushimi were outside together. “Do you know anything about what’s happened?”

“Yata-chan and I are heading back to HOMRA Ent. Says he wants to get somewhere warm before he opens up.”

“At least he’s told you he’ll talk to you.” There’s concern across her face as they walk back to their table.

“I’m sure Fushimi-kun will talk. He seems to be in the mood to do so.”

“I’ll hope.”

 

* * *

“Kusanagi-san, what did Saruhiko say to you when he left?” They’re only walking out to the car when Yata starts talking.

His manager weighs his words carefully, sensing his anxiety. “He left a letter. Short and to the point, saying he was cutting his contract with HOMRA Ent., having already sent a request up to Mikoto.”

“And?”

“I’d already told him that I wanted him to stay. I also told him I wouldn’t stop him if he left, because Yata-chan, he looked absolutely miserable.” He adds that last part on quickly, sensing Yata beginning to react.

“Did everyone notice but me?” He sounds absolutely defeated, unsure as to how he _of all people_ couldn’t notice something about his _best friend_.

“It’s because you’re _you_ that you didn’t notice, and I don’t mean that as an insult against your character.” They get to the car and Kusanagi starts warming it up, but Yata’s still standing outside. “Would it make more sense to say everyone noticed because they weren’t you?”

“Not at all. Isn’t that the exact same thing?” The nuances of the two sentences goes unnoticed by Yata, and he frowns in frustration.

“Alright, different approach.” Kusanagi reaches into the backseat and exits with the ice scraper. Throwing it to Yata, he asks, “What did you guys just argue about?”

Objective events, Yata can do. He catches the ice scraper and eyes the passenger seat window. “I—I don’t really know, it all just happened.” Yata cracks the ice off the windows with more force than he expected. “I asked him why he was still an idol, and then he kept avoiding the question by making fun of me, and then he was like, ‘if you don’t know by now then it’s not worth telling you’, and then I, uh.”

Kusanagi lets the silence encourage Yata to keep talking. He brushes a few snowflakes off the sections where the ice has cracked off.

“I shoved snow into his face. A lot. I—I was kinda angry. Fuck.” Yata pauses his actions, but his grip tightens around the plastic. “And then at the end he _still_ didn’t give me a straight answer, then you showed up.”

“Then what was the last thing he said?”

“I don’t even know what he said, it was like. ‘You’re so bright’, or something _weird_ , and that I brought in people and they brought me to them?” Yata sighs, channeling as much of the frustration as he can into clearing the windows. “I really don’t know, Kusanagi-san. He—he said it twice, kind of. The first time he said it was after he said that _I’d_ left _him_. Isn’t that fuckin’ weird? When I was always there?”

Kusanagi ignores the questions to avoid derailing. He brushes loose ice off the front window. “And the second?”

“…was after I told him to stop fucking around. But I mean—Saru isn’t that petty, right? Like, he didn’t just leave because I was doing better than him, even though we’re supposed to be a team?”

“Fushimi-kun is more of a mystery to me than he is to you,” Kusanagi shrugs. “Most I can do is ask you questions and help you straighten things out, but your mind’s the one that’s gotta do the working.”

“I—he _told_ me when we were arguing that at some point he thought he’d _lost_ me,” Yata emphasizes, trying to sort out everything from the past half hour. “And then he said that’s why _he_ left.”

“And why does he think he lost you?”

“I don’t know!” Yata stabs the ice scraper into an untouched window, and Kusanagi tries not to cringe at the loudness of the ice cracking. “It doesn’t make any fucking _sense_ , we were gonna be on stage _together_ , why would me bringing fans in for us make him want to _leave?”_

Between the two of them, the only noises are ice cracking and Yata’s huffing as he continues to clear the car. Kusanagi contemplates the words from before and observes the scene: Yata is frustrated. The only topic Fushimi will avoid is that related to Yata. Fushimi does not give straight answers. Yata is frustrated, and the circle of calamity continues.

He can put one (Yata Misaki, confused, frustrated, seeking answers) and one (Fushimi Saruhiko, confused, vulnerable, cold) together. But he won’t. They’ve got to put themselves together, eventually.

“…He really said all that, huh.” Kusanagi chuckles this time for some reason Yata can’t understand. “Ah, youth.”

“What does that even mean? And why the hell did you just make me scrape all the ice off your windows?” Yata brushes the last few pieces of ice off and throws the plastic in the backseat.

“You needed to get some of that frustration out, so you could tell me everything again without yelling as much.” Kusanagi has _that_ smile back on his face, the one that reminds Yata of Anna’s knowing gaze. “Come, get in the car.”

The inside of the car is warm, and as soon as they’re ready, Kusanagi pulls out of the parking lot. “I’m sure you know better than me that Fushimi-kun is hopeless.” Kusanagi chuckles _again_ , and Yata thinks it sounds like the way his smile looks. “Start from the beginning, Yata-chan.”

He takes a deep breath. “He said we were more popular as soloists than we would have been as a duet, but that was kinda bullshit. Then he says that I left him, which made him quit, but for some reason he stayed as an idol.”

“Mhm.” It’s late at night, and the roads have yet to be plowed for snow. The drive home will be long.

Yata needs that time. “Then he tells me I’m an idiot for not being able to figure out the reason he left.”

“Mhm.”

“And _then_ he tries to tell me that _I_ was the reason he left, and I thought it was because I sucked at first but then he actually _complimented_ me.”

“He did?”

“I mentioned it, didn’t I?” At Kusanagi’s confused face, he elaborates. “He was like, ‘you’re too bright’, or something.”

“Ah, in different wording, yes you did. Continue.”

“So he never left because I sucked, which is what I thought this entire time, right? But I—I don’t know, I really just don’t get it.”

They’re still a few blocks away from HOMRA Ent., but Yata just wants to get back to his room already and just sleep it off. “People do always say the best inspiration comes from dreams,” Kusanagi mentions. “If it doesn’t piece itself together now, then it might as you’re sleeping.”

“Kusanagi-san, why does it sound like you already know _why_ Saru left?”

“I don’t. But I’ve got my own ideas. We can talk in the morning, so just rest for now.”

* * *

Before Misaki goes to bed, he picks up his guitar and sits by his window. He plays old songs automatically just to fill the air with _something._ He’s not really thinking about anything (but it’s really that he’s thinking about everything and doesn’t know where to start).

He speaks to the ghosts of his breath as they fog up the window. “Back then, I was still by your side? Are you trying to say that when I ‘left’ or whatever, you started planning to get out of this entire thing?”

His fingers mold to the chords of his own solo song, and he laughs at how much more fitting it’s become. “So you never actually hated working with me?”

_The thoughts you cling onto—_

“Then why bother pretending you did?” Everyone tells him this: Saruhiko had hated everything about this job except him, _Misaki_. So why stay _in_ the industry but without the one thing that he apparently didn’t mind about it?

— _are paper-thin, with no substance;_

“When did I leave you?” Even with Kusanagi and Totsuka in the mix, Misaki had practically never gone anywhere without Saruhiko. Weren’t they inseparable? How could he have left if he wanted to be with Saruhiko every step of the way?

_do you even understand?_

“I _wanted_ us to keep working together, you know, what the fuck.”

( _You’re too brilliant, Misaki._ )

“Did that mean I was getting too good for you? Saru, are you an idiot? You’re the one that was always better than me, what the hell are you talking about?” His strumming gets louder out of frustration, and he allows himself to finish the song before he moves on.

( _You bring in too much attention, you always do._ _People are drawn to you. You draw yourself to people._ )

Yata lets the final chords ring out in the room, the music bloodying his hands with the smell of copper. Sinking further into the corner between the wall and the window, he speaks out loud again to get his thoughts flowing more freely.

“Why is that supposed to be a bad thing? Okay—okay, yeah, so you’re… actually not the most trusting of people,” he says almost guiltily, “and even if this got us out of school shit in a dramatic way, it meant you’d have to spend more time trying to put on appearances. I think I get it.” Misaki finds himself strumming other chords, moving away from his own song and back into autopilot.

“But you ever cared how rude you were to people. Why didn’t you just tell me to fuck off?” Misaki considers the past year with Kingdom Come, Saruhiko always voicing his hostility while never quite fully believing it. “Why did you go through auditions for me, even though I was the only one scouted?”

(Another voice rings in his head, one that doesn’t sing his lyrics, and one that isn’t Saruhiko’s, or Kusanagi’s, or anyone else from Kingdom Come: _Are you sure you shouldn’t be writing a love song instead?)_

Misaki shuts every thought down, left hand tightening into the guitar neck. He leans it up against the wall again and tries not to think about whatever the _fuck_ stupid ideas are starting to come up.

He bundles himself into the blankets. Into the pillow, he muffles.

“Fuck you.”

Silently, his right hand reaches up to fiddle with the earring in his right earlobe. Without looking, he knows it’s the blue one, the one he hasn’t changed since he first put it in.

* * *

It’s always Totsuka’s ideas. It’s almost like Totsuka knows exactly what he wants to happen, and he sets things up in such a backwards way that it ends up _working_.

Misaki only thinks this in the moment before wakefulness and sleep, and he forgets it when he wakes again in the morning.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [behind moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a2nbx0BvmMU) / [lyrics](http://eshtarwind.tumblr.com/post/138990517129/le-s-ca-behind-moon-lyrics-and-translations)
> 
> i really meant to throw a transition chapter in there, i really did, but life gets ya. i was going to expand on the december sections in [midnight channel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8023000/chapters/19130872), which i will probably end up doing, but under green room instead of a main chapter. ^o^;;


	13. Second By Second

(The rest of Fushimi Saruhiko's night goes differently than Yata Misaki’s does.)

* * *

“Fushimi, you don’t have to talk to me about it.” It’s the first words out of his manager’s mouth when they’ve both sat in the car.

He would carry on in normal fashion, responding to the conversation underneath the conversation, but he finds himself drained. His words become straightforward. “But you’d prefer if I did.”

“Naturally.” Awashima starts the car, and starts waiting for it to warm up. “If it helps, you can think I’m doing this to not sabotage the tour with a bad argument between our two main stars.”

“But you’re doing this out of concern, because you _care_ about me.” He tries to make it sound mocking, but it lacks its bite; Fushimi sounds more defeated, if anything.

She lets the cold seep back into her voice. “Yes. But again, you can pretend I’m operating from a purely business standpoint, that I’m bloodthirsty and will hang onto any information you give me in order to further improve your status as my artist.” 

“You still went sentimental at the end, Awashima-san.” His tone takes on just the slightest bit of his normal drawl, the sentence coming out as a sigh. “‘Your’ artist, now?”

“Sharp as always, Fushimi.” Her face is softer than the one usually wears, almost as an invitation for Saruhiko to open up. “I won’t force you. I do, however, hope that I would have at least proven myself more trustworthy than when our contract first started.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Awashima-san.” The words fall out of his mouth, and he no longer tries to pick them up. He is tired, tonight.

Awashima tries to hide her surprise as best she can. She spares a glance at him and carefully pulls out of the parking lot, snow crunching underneath her tires, and it’s the only noise they’ll allow between them.

The remnants of snow in Fushimi’s hair melts into water streaks across his window, and he’s looking somewhere above the sideview mirror. He looks defeated, and tired, and Awashima thinks she’ll ask in the morning.

“Thank you, Fushimi.” She closes the conversation in the car right there, having already gotten more than she’d expected.

* * *

The snow clogs up the roads, and it’s almost two in the morning when they return to the Scepter 4 building. 

“Get some rest tonight, Fushimi.” 

He doesn’t move. She shifts her gaze from him to the same point he’s looking at up ahead. “I mean this in the nicest way possible, but there may be better places for you to contemplate that aren’t my car, which uses up gas and therefore, my money.”

Awashima smiles at the familiar click of Fushimi’s tongue. “My salary could pay for your gas until you turn a hundred and fifty.”

“’Until’? Fushimi, how long do you think I’ll live?”

"Did you not hear me? One hundred and fifty years old.” He looks like he’s trying not to smile, but fails when Awashima lets out a laugh of her own. His eyes are tired, but his expression softens. “You’ll live forever if you keep giving me jobs at this pace, you’re draining all the life from me.”

“So your goal with this career was to maintain eternal life? You could have told me right from the start, Fushimi, I could have directed your workflow better.”

“It could be worse,” he shrugs noncommittally. “Don’t bother worrying about me tonight.” He steps out of the car, motions sluggish as if he hadn’t moved in years, and he closes the door gently.

Awashima waves a hand at him, makes sure he makes his way in, and drives back off to her apartment.

* * *

_I miscalculated._

To his dark room, he lets the thought go. The wind is still whistling against the window, blowing snowflakes all across the glass. It’s the only source of light in the room, and Saruhiko intends to keep it that way.

Emotions got him into this mess, and so this time, he’ll reason himself out.

He leans his back on the door and lets out a long sigh. He has to start somewhere. The first memory he translates into cold, concrete, objective fact is the very first day the concert was announced to them, in WR Ent.

_Action: rather than questioning ulterior motives, I accepted the idea of a multi-company tour. I entered with insufficient information._

_Consequence: this past year._ Short and simple, because Saruhiko doesn’t want to reach eternity reciting every single second.

 _Reason:_ (Misaki, over a year ago, standing stiffly beside him by the exit as those at the tea table finalized the tours. He only had three earrings, back then; they all caught the light when he’d burst forward in protest, and there lay his first mistake.

He hadn’t seen Misaki in a while, had nearly forgotten the taste of his passion directed straight towards him. It was addicting, and Saruhiko knows does not want to remember he is weak.)

He cuts the memory off. _Reason: Misaki._ Concise. Factual. A simple cause and effect. (He chooses to ignore the fact that people are the most complicated thing of all.)

Next.

_Action: spraining my ankle like a goddamn idiot._

_Consequence: show weakness, receive pity._ Pity is not a look Saruhiko wants directed at him, especially from Misaki.

 _Reason:_ (Lunches are useless. He does without them to avoid walking down with Misaki, to maintain the distance between them so that every meeting becomes more charged. He avoids the other members of OXIDIZE and Alphabet Boys, who will certainly drag him down were they to see him wandering.

So lunches are useless. Dinners become useless too, because compositions don’t stop for things like dinner and Awashima’s complaints; he ends up poring over the words for hours, finding the right combination to match the music that’s fit perfectly in his head.

He grows tired, but creativity is infuriatingly irrational, and he cannot simply push ideas away out of worry of forgetting them. And so he stumbles, _not_ because it is raining, but because he miscalculated how the rain would affect him, and he therefore falls.)

Concise. Factual. A simple cause and effect. _Reason: miscalculated, everything._

 _Reason: people in general._ That one’s on him, an unnecessary weakness that shouldn’t have been exploited.

Next.

 _Action:_ (The guitar strings are easy. He knows Misaki’s using his guitar for his solo song, and he wonders how long it’s been since the strings were changed, so he walks into a music store with a cap pulled over his head until he finds the strings Misaki uses.

That should have been all. But Saruhiko looks through the scans of their album on fan blogs, lingers on Misaki’s helix piercings, black and gold. He thinks of what it’s like to have blue, _his own_ official royal blue adorning Misaki’s ears, and he doesn’t tell anyone when he goes out and picks up two pairs, one ruby red and one Fushimi blue, and makes the excuse that he only meant to buy the red ones.)

Saruhiko grits his teeth.

Concise.

Factual.

A simple cause and effect.

 _Action: gave into sentimentality._ He doesn’t like how that sounds; weak, pathetic. He rewords it. _Action: bought Misaki a birthday present._

 _Consequence: show weakness, receive pity._ Exposing his weakness—Misaki. He scoffs at himself. Weakness—Misaki. Yata Misaki. _Yata Misaki._ Saruhiko is not sentimental. Fushimi Saruhiko does not have something as juvenile as a _crush_ on _Yata. Misaki._ Yata Misaki has moved on, become shining stars for countless people, has touched upon heights higher than the ones of the roofs of their middle school, their high school, HOMRA Ent. He gathers a family in the form of _Kingdom Come_ , an appropriate move from their pathetic world into something greater.

 _Reason:_ (Misaki’s stupefied face, hand holding his in the July heat, and gives Saruhiko a _handshake_ out of barely concealed panic. The blue glitters off his right ear, and Saruhiko’s heart beats traitorously loud in his ears.)

This exercise in control begins to spiral out of control, ironically enough. Saruhiko sets clenches his jaw; things _always_ go out of control when Misaki is involved. He continues.

Next.

 _Action:_ (A boy, a loud annoying boy ends up in his business, dragging him around to things and chattering endlessly to a Fushimi that won’t answer—and after, a Saruhiko that _does_. 

On top of the school roof, Misaki hums along to the soundtrack of whatever game he’s playing, making up lyrics on the spot. In their shared apartment, Misaki sings along to the one of the Saturday morning anime openings, the first thing Saruhiko hears as he stirs from sleep. Somewhere, at some time, Misaki is singing a song his mother taught him, stroking his hair and wiping his forehead with a wet cloth, and Saruhiko thinks he’s got a fever, because he’s warm everywhere, or maybe he just really likes Misaki’s voice, or—)

_Action: forgetting my place. Misaki forgetting my place._

_Consequence:_ (It seems as though the entire room stares at Saruhiko when he walks back to the table, returning from slightly cooler July air. The restaurant is stuffy; everyone’s eyes are on him as he drops himself back into the corner, and all the conversation lulls.

“What?”

“Nothing,” one of them says, and whoever’s sitting behind Misaki points excitedly at his ears. Saruhiko clicks his tongue, and the world within the room starts spinning again.)

He gets carried away. Restart.

 _Consequence:_ (He nearly trips the very first step he takes with the heels, and Misaki catches while laughing. Saruhiko doesn’t quite remember the wording, but it seems to imply something like _you’re not hot shit._ words escaping in a way that sounds like a sigh of relief. Saruhiko files this memory as humiliating—but not quite.)

 _Consequence:_ (Loss is not something Saruhiko has taught himself to adjust to, because he’s never wanted anything tied to him so tightly that he’d feel an empty space when it left. It’s the first lesson he teaches himself—happiness is fleeting. Expect nothing, be disappointed by nothing.

But his mind fills with the image of Misaki above him, desperation and pent up anger fuelling the snow being shoved into his face. And Saruhiko lets it happen. He lets his head hang loose, lets it make marks in the snow beneath him, and stays silent.

This is something he has never thought to prepare for, and the ache in his chest—his entire _body_ is unfamiliar and it draws him tight and makes him impossibly small and when Misaki lets go of him for real this time, finally, he feels _loss_ and desperation and fear, because he doesn’t understand his own body or mind or heart anymore, it’s an endless frantic stream of _let me die_ and _Misaki, Misaki, Misaki_.

Misaki asks him a question. He takes a deep breath, and he answers, as honestly as his heart can allow him.)

_Consequence: Embarrassment. Humiliation. Loss._

_Reason:_ (A boy, a loud annoying boy ends up in his business and drags him onto the rooftop when it’s pouring rain, when classes are done. Staying dry is not an option when Misaki kicks a puddle into Saruhiko, and he throws his PDA in his bag and tosses it over to the side and stomps a puddle next to the shorter boy.)

(Misaki sings taunts at him, and even his insults take on a fond tone: he is singing to Saruhiko, he is smiling at Saruhiko, he is singing while smiling at Saruhiko.)

(A young man, a loud annoying young man stands in front of him in front of thousands of people. Cake sticks disgustingly to his right cheek, but Misaki’s looking right at him with a messy hand and a grin that shines brighter than all the stage lights in the world.

Saruhiko takes a handful of cake and smears it across the other’s cheek and across his smile, selfishly hiding it from the rest of the world.)

_Reason:_

_Reason:_

_Reason:_

He can’t control his own goddamn mind anymore. Three prompts, three sentences to answer. It should have been possible, he should have been able to do it in under five minutes: cause/effect, action/consequence, logic/reason.

Instead, Saruhiko finds himself sliding down the door until he hits on the ground. His mind is reeling, unsure when he stopped trying to even follow his own exercise and let _Misaki_ take over consume him.

He continues to stare at the same point, somewhere beyond the window. Alright, his actions have been confusing over these past months. Misaki has a point.

Fushimi ignores him Yata all day. This is the body that moves him away from fully integrating into Kingdom Come. This is the face he puts on when he and Yata pressed close together in their duet dances. This is the one that spoke for him, over two years ago, spitting into Yata’s face about leaving him behind. This is the one that acts for him every time on television and on stages, the one that everyone knows _cool composed aloof ice cold_ as synonymous for _Fushimi._

Saruhiko is all over him Misaki the next. Saruhiko writes a song—two— _three_ songs for Misaki, each one with a different side of him ( _I felt you moving ahead of me_ , his debut song says, and then _I miss the times we had_ , his false set of lyrics say, and then _there are things I wish we could have done together)._ It’s Saruhiko buys him presents that say _I still think about you, and I want you to think about me, too._ And it’s Saruhiko’s heart, his goddamn traitorous heart speeds up until he can’t hear anything but his heartbeat for things even _tamer_ than their bathroom stall malfunction, like _Misaki is cooking for me again_ and _Misaki is still the one who gives me cake_ and _Misaki is smiling._

Fushimi Saruhiko is a whole that doesn’t know what to do with the whole of Yata Misaki.

On times like this, he relies on Fushimi. Cool, composed, aloof, ice cold, distant Fushimi.

His fists clench at the memory of the double-sided page of lyrics sitting alongside his bass. _The higher you are, the harder you fall._ Fushimi Saruhiko pretends this is part of his plan, so Misaki _knows_.

So Misaki knows that Fushimi Saruhiko, _all_ of him, probably, most likely, feels some _way_ about him.

 _Why not just walk up to him on Monday’s practice before rehearsal and clear this all up?_ He asks himself, briefly. It's logical. Solve a miscommunication with proper communication. On paper, it sounds easier. It would probably hurt less for both parties.

But it would be a joke to assume Misaki even reciprocated, after all that Fushimi Saruhiko has done. And he remembers why didn’t drop out of the industry in the first place, why he threw himself into Scepter 4.

Because Misaki _will_ know, and it’s going to have to be dramatic for it to truly stick, Fushimi Saruhiko thinks.

He falls asleep while still leaning against the foot of the door, the winter storm only growing stronger outside.

* * *

It’s risky, and he could end up ruining the entire first half of the concert if he doesn’t play things right. It’s a tricky situation he’s landed them into, but if he can pull off the rebound it’ll all be worth it.

Practices are only scheduled for the Wednesday and Thursday this week, with the Tokyo concert happening Friday night. The practices are unavoidable, but he otherwise spends the weekend and the first two days of the week hiding in his room, emerging quickly to gather food and returning. Fushimi puts on his best _I’m working, don’t interrupt me_ face and makes sure that his amp is _always_ a little bit too loud as he practices in his room, so no one congregates outside his door and whispers rumours and concerns.

Wednesday's practice only takes up the afternoon. This is where the balance gets tricky; Fushimi needs to right with Misaki  _just enough_ that the entire concert isn’t compromised, but not enough that the awkwardness between them completely breaks apart, that the dam spills before the water reaches the brim.

Unsurprisingly, Misaki avoids eye contact with him, always arriving right on the hour. No more, no less. Surprisingly, there isn’t any sort of _anger_ written on his face; there’s a hesitance that Fushimi hasn’t expected in the slightest. This is a face that he doesn’t see a lot of—Misaki can be hesitant, but he never lets himself sit on anything for two long. Normally, he doesn’t hold back. His thoughts and speech often are one and the same.

The hesitance bleeds through Misaki’s actions too. He’s become much better at controlling his performances on stage, much better than almost two years ago, and to an untrained eye Misaki runs through their duets just fine while Fushimi is composed, as always.

But no one involved in the concert is an untrained eye anymore. He doesn’t know what OXIDIZE and Kusanagi know of their conversation, but he knows that Awashima knows nothing and that Alphabet Boys can guess.

No one comments on it, because all of them have a general grasp of the situation between the two of them. It’s because of this that they run through twice almost perfectly; they’re pushed tight enough to schedule that there leaves very little time to talk or discuss, not that anyone particularly wants to in this environment.

Fushimi immediately leaves when after the itinerary for tomorrow is announced. No one stops him, and Awashima doesn’t follow, so he pulls a hat over his head and scrunches himself into the back seats of the bus back to Scepter 4.

* * *

Thursday is the dress rehearsal at the venue. Misaki immediately manages to corner him before they can even start their first runthrough, in one of the shadier corners backstage. Alphabet Boys are still on their way, and anyone else that’s here is sluggish and nursing a few coffees in the green room.

It leaves them uninterrupted, and Misaki barges full speed ahead, as always. As it’s meant to be. “Saruhiko. I don’t hate you.”

Fushimi doesn’t know what to say, so he just keeps listening. He must look just as awkward as Misaki feels, because Misaki takes a deep breath and powers through with his spiel.

“And—okay, like, I thought a lot about it. About what happened on Totsuka’s birthday.” It’s probably a nervous habit of his by now, but Fushimi’s heart skips a beat when Misaki plays with the earring on his right ear, still a brilliant blue. “And I guess what happened on my birthday, and yours, and a lot of other things.

“And I think I have ideas, but.” Misaki looks at him with a gaze so intense it completely negates any of his earlier hesitance. “It’s always me that’s talking to you first.” He swallows. “I’ll listen to you. But you have to tell me without any of your dumb backwards mind game shit so I don’t get fuckin’ confused again, ‘kay? This isn’t fun for me, either.”

Fushimi is speechless. He blinks quickly. He wonders how to get himself out of this. “It’s—kind of a bad time—”

“Then I’ll wait, Saruhiko, I will, just don’t let it go on too long.” Fushimi looks away at his words. “And we gotta not fuck up the concert, so can we at least play nice until you remove the stick up your ass and actually tell me what your deal is?”

Fushimi _did_ ask for an awkward balance that wouldn’t sabotage the concert, but since it’s at _his_ expense he regrets it. He scowls but Misaki _laughs_ and holds up Fushimi’s arm and balls his hand into a fist.

“’Yeah, Misaki’,” the shorter of the two says, mocking his drawling tone voice, “’It’s a deal’. There, wasn’t that hard, was it, idiot?” With the hand not holding his arm, Misaki fistbumps Saruhiko.

When Saruhiko turns his head back around, opening his eyes, Misaki is _not_ shining up at him, with a grin so wide it coaxes Saruhiko into one of his own.

Instead, Misaki looks reluctant, head tilted down and looking up through his eyelashes. He looks as if he's trying to hold back the smile he has on his face, and it’s a hopeful smile, not an uninformed blind optimism.  _You’re going to kill me, Misaki._ Saruhiko clenches his fist a bit tighter and pushes it against Misaki’s and tries to ignore the way Misaki’s entire body reaches into the smile that grows even larger.

Fushimi quickly takes his arm away and Misaki lets him. He walks somewhere around the venue, ignoring everyone’s questioning stares, and finds himself in front of the bathroom, as always.

There’s a knock on the door, which is odd; it’s a public bathroom, and the main door doesn’t lock. But the soft voice of a young woman answers dissipates all of his curiosities. “Saruhiko, wash your hands.”

“Check your hearing, Anna, the tap is already running.” He pushes his glasses up into his hair, testing the temperature of the water. It’s freezing, and he hopes it’ll give him the clarity he wants. _He really does all the work for the two of us, doesn’t he,_ Saruhiko thinks absentmindedly. _Whether it’s embarrassing himself or not._

It solves the problem of trying to strike the balance between them, and adds another: he’s going to have to talk to Misaki at some point. In order for his song to have full impact, they’ll need to keep this balance until the concert. Which means that the talk has to come _after_ his song, which means he _can’t_ just disappear into the night once all's said and done.

Maybe Saruhiko’s not the same person he used to be; he finds that it’s not a big of a deal as he thinks it is.

He pats his face a few times while looking at the mirror and dries off. Of course, as he steps out, HOMRA Entertainment’s smallest burning flame is still standing there waiting for him. “Anna, I washed my hands this time.”

“But you didn’t pee.”

“Stop observing my bathroom rituals.” She looks up at him, straight faced as always, and Saruhiko doesn’t know what comes over him when he ruffles her hair once, hesitantly. He thinks she tilts her head slightly under his touch, but the motion is so slight it could have been imagined.

“Don’t wait too long, okay, Saruhiko?”

Saruhiko releases a breath slowly, closing his eyes. His mouth twitches up slightly as he replies, “Anna, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Anna hides a small laugh behind her hand, the smile reaching her eyes, and Saruhiko waves a hand over his shoulder as he continues to wander around the concert hall.

* * *

He’s seated himself in the highest balcony in the farthest corner, slumped in a seat and idly watching all of the others walk around and chatter amongst themselves. There’s barely any light in the stadium except for the stage lights, where A/V tests levels before another dress rehearsal.

Fushimi had never been one for concerts to begin with. He’s never sat in seats like this, waiting for someone to do a song and dance for him and hundreds of other people. Awashima goes over recordings of his concerts with him for criticism, and sometimes he can’t help but pass by and catch one of his stages on TV, but he never watches from a fan’s point of view.

Letting out a sigh, he skips through a few songs on his old mp3 player and curls up slightly in the seat. The cameras aren’t on, and so nothing is being projected, and so those of Kingdom Come that are fooling around on stage are indistinct. _People pay money for this?_

The concept of _idols_ is has always been something ridiculous to Fushimi. False personalities to engage the crowds, to be energetic and to tell them that _everything is going to be fantastic!_ —Fushimi chants _life isn’t all fun and games_ while directing the very opposite of that message out to those idiots that call themselves his fans.

This entire industry is absolutely ridiculous. _Only idiots believe in words as empty as those,_ he thinks derisively,  _well-paying idiots_. _What’s the appeal in caring about someone you’ll never know personally?_

(A gleam of fiery red hair catches his eye on stage, and Misaki’s pearly white smile dazzles underneath the harsh lights.)

The right earbud gets pulled out of his ear. “Oi,” he starts, turning towards the perpetrator.

But of course it’s Anna that comes to find him, and despite himself, the annoyance dies in his mouth. She settles in the seat next to him, and he silently quickly turns down the volume from blaring to bearable before she puts the earbud in her ear.

Anna ignores the calculating look Fushimi gives her and she looks down at the stage, much like he is. With a sigh, Fushimi resigns.

The young woman is quiet, but it somehow feels more intrusive than anyone everyone else he’s had to work with _combined_. It’s as if she’s already lived this life once and simply waits for the events unfold, the ones she already knows to happen. Like she's got freaky superpowers, like some of the comeback concepts HOMRA Ent. gave her.

After the second song (and too much contemplation on persisting divination practices in modern day Japan), Fushimi pauses it and turns to her. “Why are you here, Anna?”

“Another run-through is starting in fifteen minutes. The technicians readjusted their equipment.”

“How did you find me?” Fushimi jumps straight to the point.

“You can see every corner of the hall from the stage if you try.”

She states it as a fact, but Fushimi knows she’s hidden something in it. “I’m in all black, Anna.”

“But you make yourself want to be found up here.” Anna reaches for his mp3 player and he very hesitantly obliges; she scrolls through the list, removing the earbud from her ear when she’s decided on something.

“I won’t tell anyone you’re here. But it won’t be long until they find you, anyway.” She presses play and walks out from the back row, leaving Fushimi alone with Misaki’s singing voice. He lets out a breath of amusement at the song she’s picked—Misaki, with one of his gentler songs, singing about a home he wants to return to, hazy summer days and friendship.

It’s all very trite as far as idol songs go. But he lets himself fall victim to Misaki’s voice every time, back to a home Fushimi’s not sure they ever had. He rests his arms on the seat in front of him and buries his hands, waiting for a quarter of the hour to pass peacefully.

“This thing on?” That’s Fujishima’s voice, testing one of the handhelds. “Oh, yeah, that works, that’s cool.”

“Well—” That’s Doumyouji. Immediately, there’s the telltale low hum preceding feedback, and his mic gets cut off. He grits his teeth and looks panicked;  _as if he's ever gone through a set-up phase without messing something up,_ Fushimi comments, mind recalling instances of past performances. _It's almost like a good luck ritual_. There’s a few seconds of silence, and then Doumyouji speaks up again. “Now? Oh, okay.” Another moment of silence, and his voice returns. “Whoa, you guys are like magic, that’s sweet.”

 _We’re starting rehearsal soon._  Fushimi echoes Anna's words, and he wishes he’d left earlier so as not to expose his hiding spot now. Fushimi pauses his music and listens to the footsteps across the stage. “They’re essentially magicians,” Akiyama’s disembodied voice agrees.

It’s pretty damn sweet, yeah?” That’s Misaki’s voice now. “Like, my voice can go everywhere. And I can see everything, even though it’s like the lights are destroying my eyesight.”

Fushimi lifts his head from where he’s buried it in his arms, just enough that only his eyes are exposed. He scans the stage quickly—it’s mostly Alphabet Boys on stage, with a few members of OXIDIZE, Totsuka, and Misaki. Anna stands closer to the back, looking up at him purposefully, before reacting to something backstage and walking back off.

Misaki stretches and sits on the edge of the stage. Kicking his feet, he says something off-mic, and everyone laughs. There’s awe in his eyes as he scans the empty seats, and then Misaki is looking right at him. “Saruhiko!” He screams like an idiot, apparently opting to not use the functional microphone in his hand.

It’s too far to tell, but he’s pretty sure they’re making eye contact.

Fushimi buries his head again, but the action doesn't go unnoticed. “Stop hiding, runthrough is in five minutes!”

Doumyouji sounds bewildered as he asks, “what? Where is he?”

“Up there, on the second level, right in the corner, see?” Of course, Misaki is absolutely fucking right. “Don’t act like I can’t see you, Saru, I can see everyone in every damn seat at this angle!”

Anna may have been the first to say those words to Saruhiko, but the original words are definitely Misaki’s.

 _Dress rehearsal is starting anyway_ , Fushimi reasons. He raises a hand in recognition and stands up to stretch—Doumyouji is gasping like an idiot. “Yata, you’ve got eyes like a hawk!”

“Why’s everyone gotta use bird comparisons for me?” he groans. “I make _one_ bird-named song, and this is what you all do to me?”

“We never stopped making fun of Fushimi-san for _Summertime Lovin’!_ , to be fair.” Akiyama hasn’t even finished his sentence before the other Alphabet Boys on stage break into Fushimi’s summer pop hit.

Fushimi raises his voice as much as he can. “Why didn’t any of you let it die as the bonus track it was?”

“What, and let the wordplay Munakata wrote for you go to waste?” Hidaka’s on stage now; when he cackles, everyone else joins in.

They look up at him with the same idiotic smiles they had back in the summer. It’s irritating how each smile sent up at him or at anyone else on stage has a built-in relief, as if Fushimi’s magically changed and the tension between him and Misaki has changed at all.

Annoying. Nothing’s changed between now and then.

Fushimi sticks his hands in his pockets, walking to the exit of the balcony, denying (to the grave, as always) the smile on his face.

“Goddamnit, Munakata, never write me a song ever again.”

* * *

“Kusanagi-san, I was fuckin’ _right!_ ” is the first think Misaki screams when he jumps into shotgun, on their way back to HOMRA Ent.

His manager laughs. “The mood did seem a lot less gloomy today among everyone. You and Fushimi-kun talked, then?”

“Hell yeah, and I was fuckin’ right!” Misaki’s all energized, punching the air and he feels absolutely ready for anything that’ll come his way.

“Oh?” Kusanagi’s smile is questioning; because his guard is let down, Misaki doesn’t question it. “So what were you right about?”

Misaki’s about to charge forward when he remembers _essentially_ what he was implying to Saruhiko. And then afterwards, the non-rejection (which is practically an acceptance when it comes to someone as non-forward as Saruhiko), and the forced fistbump—but Saruhiko had reciprocated and Saruhiko’s ears always turn bright red before anything else can show on his face, and it was— _he wanted to make fun of him for it_ and he wanted to laugh just out of pure _joy_ because _he has finally cracked the code to Fushimi Saruhiko—_

And it’s fucking embarrassing. Because _he's_ the key. And everyone's kind of known that, because no one ever really knows what Saruhiko's up to, but Misaki's the first one everyone else goes to about Saruhiko.

Misaki must have hesitated for too long, because at a red light, Kusanagi makes direct eye contact with him for a second. After that second is over, his manager looks away, and now he’s gone from plain _I know something you don’t_ to _I know exactly what you know._

“I—you know what, Kusanagi-san, never mind. What was your guess, anyway?”

Kusanagi’s response is honest, and his wording leaves no room for interpretation; he takes joy in the way Misaki’s eyes go impossibly wide. He screeches at the top of his lungs and holds his head in his hands, and Kusanagi laughs all the way home.

“Yata-chan, it’s not that bad. I worded it very nicely.”

“It is _very fucking bad!”_ Misaki doesn’t exit the car when Kusanagi parks it, and he gets a comforting pat on the back.

“It’s a very pure love. A ‘Summertime Love’, if you will.”

Kusanagi laughs at his _own damn joke_ and Misaki looks up at him in horror. “No. No, I’m leaving, Kusanagi-san, goodnight, I’ll wake up at six in the morning and you’ll be waiting and we’ll never talk about this ever again.”

Misaki’s on autopilot as he drops things off in his room before making his way to the showers. After a few minutes underneath the stream of water, he finally vocalizes his frustration to the porcelain tiles.

“God fucking dammit, does everyone fucking know this _except me?!”_

* * *

_(“Fushimi-kun is hopeless at any sort of positive emotion, so why would he be any better at expressing how deeply he cares for you, Yata-chan?”)_

* * *

_JULY 2012_

“Munakata, who allowed you to write a song for me?” Fushimi crushes the paper in his hands, willing the words to be destroyed as Scepter 4’s President looks at him with his unwavering serene smile.

“Awashima-san gave me permission,” he says simply, and behind him Fushimi watches his manager nod once. “You haven’t sung a love song before, Fushimi-kun, I only think it would be appropriate for a rising idol to capture the heart of his fans this way.”

 _No_ is of course not an appropriate answer, but it doesn’t stop Fushimi’s endless complaints all the way to the recording booth. “Really, Munakata, what the hell is this?” Fushimi grumbles under his breath.

The audio engineer frowns, and Fushimi realizes he’s recording. _Oh well, what a shame._ He drawls through all of the words, uncaring of his manager’s disapproving glare and Munakata’s permanently content look.

“God, this chorus is the worst thing I’ve read in my life,” Fushimi mutters, and the instrumental cuts directly after the statement.

“Uh, Fushimi-san,” the audio engineer hesitates. He flinches under Fushimi’s glare, but otherwise continues. “On request of your manager, would it be alright to… put more emotion into it?”

“This is all the emotion I can spare.” He speaks in the same unamused voice as recording. Munakata says something inaudible to the audio engineer, who hesitates for a millisecond before bravely reaching for the intercom button again.

“…Munakata-san says to think about someone you love,” he says in a small voice.

The glare that Fushimi sends to the company president is as fiery as the summer day he wants Fushimi to sing about. _Fiery?_ His brain immediately supplies him with an image of a boy with hair as vivid as the hot countryside, with a smile more refreshing than the ocean breeze.

_The orange sky turns from blue, as the sun sets it ablaze;_

_This sight is just for you!_

Fushimi mentally kicks himself for the sentimentality.

(“Saru _,_ ” Misaki had whined, “the A/C is fuckin’ broken. We’re out of ice cream and we’re probably out of money, too, can we just go to the beach already? It’s not even that far.”

The two of them lay on the floor, fanning themselves and on the verge of falling sleep from the intense heat. “Sure, if you wanna bike there. We could alternate, but I don’t feel like moving.” Saruhiko removes the glasses from his face and places them off to the side, and he rubs at his tired eyes.)

_The blowing wind ruffles your hair,_

_And it brings to you my song,_

_A burning August melody!_

(From the other side of the room, Misaki rolls over lethargically, and then again, and again, humming an ominous tune. Letting his song reach a crescendo, he ends on his side, propped up on an elbow, looking at Saruhiko. “Come _on_ , Saru,” he murmurs, “let’s do something. Something _cold_.”

At Saruhiko’s glare, Misaki brightens. “That look is ice cold, Saruhiko, that’s the spirit!”

His smile raises the room’s temperature by at least ten degrees.)

_If you keep shining brilliantly,_

(Saruhiko pushes him and Misaki falls over onto his back with a huff. “Rude,” he says, not sounding like he believes it, and Saruhiko scoffs at him.

“So annoying, Misaki.” Apparently, Saruhiko’s words are the cue for Misaki to drag himself over to him again, dropping the back of his head hard enough on Saruhiko’s stomach to make him let out a sharp puff of air.

Misaki rolls his head over to face Saruhiko, and he grins brazenly.)

_My heart won’t ever stop!_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tic toc (infinite)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cchK0N_V8RM) / [lyrics](https://colorcodedlyrics.com/2011/07/infinite-inpiniteu-tic-toc-cc-lyrics)  
>  although, alternatively, for a different mood:  
> [tick tock (idolm@ster; i can't find a full version...)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3iNVoWoh4Vc) / [lyrics](http://www.project-imas.com/wiki/Tick_Tock)
> 
> sorry i haven't been updating as often + not replying to comments!  
> i'm almost on christmas break, so i can finish things up!


	14. [interlude] Cherry Blossoms

 

 

 

A MOMENT, SUDDEN AS AN EVENING SHOWER

 

 

 

“You idiot,” Saruhiko says through barely restrained laughter. “I thought you checked the weather today.”

Misaki momentarily exposes himself to the heavy rain to smack him with his school bag. “I checked the weather, _you’re_ the one who forgot to bring an umbrella. And besides, I didn’t think sudden downpour actually really meant _sudden!_ ”

Saruhiko, having seemingly given up on the notion of staying dry, swings his school bag back. “Excuses, excuses, Misaki!”

From then on, it turns into a race; Saruhiko’s legs are long, but Misaki has more energy, and the latter makes it back to the school entrance before the other. It’s late enough that no one’s left behind, not even for clubs, and they slump across the brick wall by the entrance.

They’re out of breath—whether from exertion or from continuous laughter, neither of them know. “The rain’s supposed to last all night, Saru, we shoulda just ran back to my house instead.”

“You’re the one that’s faster than me, I was only running to catch up.” Saruhiko takes a seat on the ground, Misaki following soon after. “If we’re just gonna run through rain again, why don’t we go back now?”

He turns to look at Misaki, who’s got an awed expression up at the thunderclouds hanging heavy in the sky. “Lemme catch my breath for a bit.”

Misaki’s eyes light up for the split second that lightning flashes across the sky. His dampened hair sticks to his forehead, and Saruhiko wants to brush it away so he can see his eyes, tuck it behind his ears so his profile is unobstructed, and lean close enough to feel his heartbeat speed up like it was earlier when they were running—

“Eh? Saru? What’s up?” Misaki turns back to him and Saruhiko puts down the hand he didn’t realise was half raised.

“You look like an idiot. Isn’t the water getting in your eyes?” Saruhiko only ends up doing one of what he wants; he brushes Misaki’s bangs back so that none of it hangs in his face. Misaki’s eyes widen at the sudden action, before his features transform into that of a wide grin. “I don’t notice, because unlike _you_ , my eyesight is perfect.”

Saruhiko’s hand lingers for a beat too long. When he pulls it away, he clicks his tongue. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I don’t see water droplets on my eyes, but you have to see water on your glasses, so it annoys you, right?” Misaki sticks his tongue out at him and Saruhiko, despite himself, does the childish action back.

“Great logic, Misaki.” He takes in the triumphant grin in front of him and finishes the sentence in his head: _I can’t win against that._

* * *

FEBRUARY 21ST, 2014  
DAY OF THE CONCERT

Saruhiko only brings his bass in the morning, in contrast to all the props and costumes having been brought yesterday afternoon.

He’d kept it in his room; he rarely makes selfish requests, and he’s rather well-trusted for jobs, so he keeps it for the night and lets his fingers play the song once over, twice, until he feels sleep drift over him.

The concert is at 8pm, but everyone comes in bright and early in the morning. While everyone is moving around, chatting, dancing around the stage, he feels an itch to play the bass still strapped around his shoulders.

Awashima allows him to find a quiet corner to play in peace, so as long as he’d return for mic check. In the dark forgotten backstage, everyone’s commotion seems to grow more muted. He hums along the tune to his own solo song before his fingers can find the notes. It’s not quite the right mood; a wicked storm had passed through this week, coming as quickly as it left, and now it leaves nothing behind but lazily drifting snowflakes.

Things always come blazing into his life and leave before Saruhiko can hang onto them. This past year has been a blur of never-ending events; he’s learnt to let the fleeting whims of nature go, but Misaki is not fleeting.

 _He never has been._ For the first time, Saruhiko believes the thought when it hangs in his mind, taking matters into his own hands.

Saruhiko mumbles the words under the silence of the room, forming them for the sake of forming them, solidifying their presence in the moment.

 

_The evening shower came and poured down as suddenly as you left;_

_Taking shelter in a familiar building, I found you, still waiting for me._

 

 

 

 

 

\- 00:13:26:47.0687

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [sakura](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uvlq0i3Fl4o) / [lyrics](http://pastebin.com/XrzSWJxK) (thanks to [emma](http://twitter.com/shinyfesta) for translating!) 
> 
> alternatively, i wanted to use [when our eyes meet](http://www.project-imas.com/wiki/Me_ga_Au_Toki), but it musically didn't feel like the right mood.
> 
> * * *
> 
> well... honestly, apologies for not updating. over time i've fallen out of the fandom and, subsequently, sarumi. which is a shame, because 1. i still really love this fic and 2. after this post, i have nothing but rough plans.  
> for the sake of those still around reading—and this story of mine that i love—i'll keep working hard. but life also gets to me, and updates may be few and far between, and for that, i truly apologise.
> 
> but happy valentines day, everyone! i still love you <3  
> if you wanna talk about anything or bug me about the fic—i don't bite—i'm mostly on twitter! [@discoprince](https://twitter.com/discoprince)


	15. [act ii] Your World, Turning Endlessly

 

\- 00:03:00:06.0041

 

Backstage has become a flurry of motion, of energy, of chaos. It doesn’t bother Fushimi—it’s not like he’s never performed with other artists on events that are meaningless, like New Year’s—but everyone here (seems to) know him personally, and instead of people keeping their distance, they get disturbingly in his face. He’s never quite gotten used to Kingdom Come backstage like this. It's always too many people.

Totsuka’s the first to visit him. Always with his camera, always unapologetic. “Fushimi-kun, there’s no way you’re not worried about this concert, are you?” He has to resist the urge to click his tongue. He’s forced into _stage mode_ earlier than he wants, which is anything earlier than any moment necessary. Fushimi’s gotten better with cameras.

He knows how to deal with being an idol, knows how to keep his eye on the top. It’s not ideal, but it’s almost time to pay off, and so there is no slacking now. Not lifting his head, he turns his eyes up under his eyelashes.

A killer. “No need.”

“That’s Fushimi-kun for ya!” A second passes where Fushimi rolls his eyes, and Totsuka puts his camera down. Leaning on a desk next to the idol, he stands in silence while Fushimi plays along on his bass.

“Anything you want, Totsuka-san?”

“Nothing really. It just feels like a while since I’ve heard you play without performing or rehearsing or anything.”

Fushimi’s fingers slow as he turns his head up to his old senior. His face is unreadable as he murmurs, “Uselessly affectionate. As always.” Somehow, it’s peaceful, for a moment. He’s never _really_ hated Totsuka’s company (or at least, some days, he hates it the least), and even though he left the door open when he walked in, he sits quietly, camera off to the side, with his eyes closed.

“You look good, Fushimi-kun.”

“It’s my job,” Fushimi says, the hesitation almost undetectable. _Almost._

He assumes Totsuka pounces on that, because of the fact that Totsuka then says, “You’ll kill ‘em.” There’s a glitter in his eye again, and Fushimi doesn’t want to follow this one any further, because he has a feeling that what has been said was something more along the lines of _him_ rather than ‘ _em,_ and Fushimi doesn’t want to be primed any further to think about Misaki.

Ah, there’s the name. He thought it. _Misaki._ “Totsuka-san—”

“Yes, yes, I’ll leave. I’d wish you luck, but you clearly don’t need it, hmm?” He winks on the way out, and Fushimi frowns in his direction.

_No good plans leave an element of luck._

* * *

“What? Should we leave?” Akagi looks at him innocently.

 _HOMRA Ent. probably has this special type of idiocy as a requirement,_ Fushimi scowls, eyeing the four OXIDIZE members sitting in the dressing room. "Yes." _Is that even a question?_

To his chagrin, Akagi shrugs. “Eh, just having you around is kinda cool, ‘Shimi.”

“Don’t call me that.” _What's with this company and nicknames?_

"Roger that, captain." He salutes, fixes the cap on his head, and redirects his attention back to the conversation between him, Eric, Fujishima, and Kamamoto (who makes furtive glances at the door, for good reason). It's too much energy to get them out of the room at this point, so he opts instead to take every chair in the room and create a barrier between him and the four chatting by the door, facing away from them and continuing to pluck at strings.

They get the point, eventually. But not before Akagi snickers and calls him _lover boy_ on the way out, as if it were supposed to mean anything.

* * *

And Fushimi hates to say, but he doesn’t really mind Hidaka’s company.

Hidaka was the first to approach him after Alphabet Boys officially became his juniors, with enthusiasm but no excessive energy. At least, at first. He was insistent, too—incredibly so. But Fushimi is sad to say he eventually gave in _(Be nice to your juniors,_ Awashima sighs, _at the very least for the sake of your image),_ and Hidaka backs off.

The rest of his group is tolerable at best and a nuisance at worst. But Hidaka treats him like an equal, in most respects. It’s not like Fushimi is actually leading Alphabet Boys, so while he appreciates his aura for keeping others away, it can get annoying sometimes. But Hidaka is crass, and he is headstrong, and states things honestly.

So, Fushimi expects nothing less of Hidaka when he says, “Fushimi-san, stop being a loser.”

“Again, why do all of you even bother with honorifics?”

Hidaka pulls up a chair next to him and sits facing him, legs on either side of the back of the chair. “I think the juxtaposition between the insult and the respect is nice. So you know I know my place as both your friend and your junior.” He has a lopsided grin on his face, and Fushimi can’t help but scoff at it.

“I fear for your mental state if you can delude yourself into thinking you’re a friend.”

Between the commotion of outside _(he actually closed the door behind him,_ Fushimi thinks absently) and Fushimi’s bass playing, Hidaka rests his head on his folded arms and listens. Listens selectively, at least. “Say, why were you so compliant with this concert in the first place? At the very beginning, you looked like you wanted to kill us whenever we’d do a Scepter 4 feature. So why accept on something this large-scale?”

Fushimi doesn’t answer that. He doesn’t want to. His traitorous fingers start playing the bassline to _the_ song, the one he composed for Misaki, and Hidaka’s ears are sharp. “Isn’t that your song, about the childhood friends?” Even with his eyes closed, a cat-like smirk curls his lips upwards. “You accepted because Alphabet Boys doesn’t have Yata but HOMRA Ent. does, right? So a joint company thing was fine? That’s cute of you, Fushimi-san.”

“I don’t need your advice, Hidaka.” He doesn’t deny Hidaka’s words, though, and it’s practically a confession at this point. Hidaka knows not to push these things when it comes to Fushimi, to just let things happen.

At least, he _thought_ Hidaka knew that. Or maybe he did and ignored it anyway. It seems like something he’d do. “I’ll give it anyway. Fushimi, you’re either going to play it safe or pull off some fucking elaborate master plan to confess your love—”

“Don’t jump to conclusions.” _Annoying._

“—but the thing is, Yata probably just wants to hear it. Straight up. Or gay up, maybe?”

“I’m not going to humour that with a response.”

“Hah, yeah, yeah. At least _I_ think I’m hilarious.” Having done enough, Hidaka stands up and walks out of the dressing room. “And don’t wait too long, Fushimi.”

“That’s two pieces of advice too many.”

“I’m a fountain of wisdom. And Fushimi-san, quite frankly, you’re thirsty.”

Hidaka leaves the door open, still snickering to himself; the chaos outside pours back in. Most of the staff and the idols are hustling and bustling about, occasionally glancing into Fushimi’s door. His frowning at them seems to make them smile wider, annoyingly enough.

Fushimi huffs and closes the door on all their faces.

* * *

 

\- 00:02:13:01.0695

 

"Yata-chan," Kusanagi says gently, putting a hand on his idol's shoulder. Yata jolts in shock, spilling water all over himself and his clothes. While he sputters, his manager takes the opportunity to continue talking. "Blessing in disguise. It's about half an hour to show start, why haven't you changed yet?"

"I-It's not like I'll be on straight away once the show starts, anyway." Yata mumbles as he tries to wipe some of the water off his face in vain. "Because—W-Well, I'll still have about twenty minutes, right?"

"...Less." Kusanagi's stare is calculating. Yata seems to wilt under it.

"Okay, fine, I'm _stalling,_ but not because of what you think, o-okay?"

"So it's _not_ Fushimi? News to me." He stands unperturbed as Yata enters another sputtering fit. "It's not like I've forgotten. My memory lasts past eighteen hours, you know?"

"Yeah, but you didn't have to say it so loud!" Yata's aware that _he's_ the one yelling now, that those in the vicinity can hear him over the commotion of backstage, and that there are quite a few eyes on him now. So, _yes_ _,_ alright, okay. Yata Misaki is stalling, because he and Fushimi Saruhiko have to share a dressing room, and what kind of bullshit was that? The entire world must have been against him, he was convinced of it. Because he and Saruhiko sharing a dressing room was _awkward_ _,_ because they were barely friends, and they were arguing, and they didn't like each other. "We don't. We don't like each other," Yata mutters under his breath, and Kusanagi pushes him towards the room as he continues to fight a losing battle.

"Yes, yes, and if you don't give your all in this upcoming concert, there are going to be a lot of people that don't like you. Now please get ready, Yata-chan."

But—well, they _did_ like each other, didn't they? Wasn't that what that whole talk yesterday was about? Was he reading into it too much? God, weren't they about to make out, like, _three months ago_ in a nasty bathroom stall? _Okay, okay, not there, never mind_ —

In an act of defiance against his manager, Yata grabs the doorknob and swings it wide open. "Tch. Don't need to tell me what to do."

When he storms in and slams the door behind him, he pauses, taking in the room's layout. It's smaller than OXIDIZE's and Alphabet Boys', for obvious reasons. Mirrors cover one wall, the other three adorned by decals and stickers of other bands that have used this room. Their costumes are hanging on separate racks, and there is a fortress of chairs dividing the halves of the room. Kinda weird, sure—

—And. His costume rack is on one half of the chair wall, and Saruhiko's is on the other.

 _Huh. Well then._ Yata's heart sinks. He might have been nervous before, but now all that fills him is dread. Saruhiko's only sending one message, and it's loud and clear. It's just—Yata doesn't know _why,_ and he's not sure he has the energy to confront this right now, because he's about to put on the biggest show of his life so far, and—and—it can wait. Because Yata said he would wait.

 _Don't know what I expected, anyway._ He mentally reprimands himself for expecting anything else. _You were the one that told him to tell you on his own terms. Of course it meant never._ _Of course you told him you'd wait._

"About time, Misaki." Saruhiko's dark blue figure is settled in the farthest corner of the room away from him, and Yata makes eye contact with him only through the mirror. He waits for any other comment, for anything that aligned with the rare vulnerability that Saruhiko had shown yesterday, and nothing comes.

Without answering, Yata nearly rips the costume off the rack with more force than necessary, trying to stop the lump in his throat.

 

* * *

 

 + 00:01:49:16.8752

 

_Misaki's learnt to deal with fansigns. Yeah, he still gets embarrassed around girls, and he'll never be the fanservice machine that others are, but his genuineness is a huge charm point for many of his female fans. Really, as long as he doesn't think about it too much, it's alright. And he's gotten some practice with facing girls in his time training, mostly because it was mandatory.  
_

_He tries to keep this all in mind as he stares at the sea of fans in line for the after-concert fansigning. Many of the fans are polite, many of them understanding about Misaki's endearing self-consciousness around girls, but this is a whole new level. It's a bit overwhelming._

_So it's nice to be given an excuse to look away from a female fan for a few extra seconds. Questions on sticky notes are common, and Misaki knows to be careful on what he says on them—even the most genuine idols need to remember how fast things can travel over the internet, and that often, there are no second chances.  
_

_No second chances. Say it right the first time._

_He reads this one over quickly:_

 On a scale from one to ten where ten is the best ever, how was it working with Fushimi-kun again?

 _The fan has drawn a heart over the number ten. He draws a little angry face above roughly 7 and writes “it was complicated” down at the bottom. A lame non-answer, even for_ him _. Misaki is cautious, but he doesn't like lying, either. He's just had to learn with dealing half-truths. And maybe he was exaggerating, just a little bit. He's tried to avoid them, but he knows that the fansites exist, the ones dedicated to him and Saruhiko. So maybe he wants to throw them a bone. Out of the kindness of his heart, because he looks out for all his female fans in his own way. It'll make sense, if he thinks it through enough._

_The fan reads his comment and laughs. At least the angry face makes it a hit. “Yata-kun, you’re so dramatic!”_

“ _If I’m dramatic, I don’t wanna know what you’d call Saru.” They share a laugh and she thanks him, the line shifting one more fan over.  
_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> four hours ago, i was struck with two choices: to sleep early for the first time in weeks or to get out of bed and write, because i had been struck with the urge to write (which has been missing for months). not sure whether i picked the right decision. i'll tell you when i wake up.
> 
> sorry for the weak chapter; the remaining chapters have been planned, actually, but it was this chapter that i came back to multiple times with little success. i have tried my best but i must release it to the wild, now. thank you for reading :')


End file.
